COPYRIGHT,    1887,    BY   GEORGE   C.   COX 


BY     PERMISSION 


I 


* 


COMPLETE 

PROSE    WORKS 

Specimen  Days  and  Collect,  November  Boughs 
and  Good  Bye  My  Fancy 

By 

WALT  WHITMAN 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1910 


COPYRIGHT 

I88l,    1888,    1891,  BY    WALT    WHITMAN 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


M/hAJ 
CONTENTS 

SPECIMEN  DAYS  PAG* 

A  Happy  Hour's  Command 
Answer  to  an  Insisting  Friend   . 
Genealogy  —  Van  Velsor  and  Whitman      .  ^ 
The  Old  Whitman  and  Van  Velsor  Cemeteries 
The  Maternal  Homestead 
Two  Old  Family  Interiors 

Paumanok,  and  my  Life  on  it  as  Child  and  Youn     Ma 
My  First  Reading  —  Lafayette 
Printing  Office  —  Old  Brooklyn 
Growth— Health  — Work 
My  Passion  for  Ferries     . 
Broadway  Sights 
Omnibus  Jaunts  and  Drivers 
Plays  and  Operas  too 
Through  Eight  Years 

Sources  of  Character  —  Results  —1860      . 
Opening  of  the  Secession  War  . 
National  Uprising  and  Volunteering   . 
Contemptuous  Feeling 
Battle  of  Bull  Run,  July,  1861 
The  Stupor  Passes  —  Something  Else  Begins 
Down  at  the  Front 
After  First  Fredericksburg 
Back  to  Washington 

Fifty  Hours  Left  Wounded  on  the  Field     . 
Hospital  Scenes  and  Persons       . 
Patent-Office  Hospital 

•  »  •          _  1  ?  „!_  A  *L  C 


The  White  House  by  Moonlight 
An  Army  Hospital  Ward 
A  Connecticut  Case 


Two  Brooklyn  Boys 
A  Secesh  Brave 

The  Wounded  from  Chancellorsville 
A  Night  Battle  over  a  Week  Since     . 
Unnamed  Remains  the  Bravest  Soldier 
Some  Specimen  Cases 
My  Preparations  for  Visits 
Ambulance  Processions    . 


395705 


vi  CONTENTS 

SPECIMEN  DAYS  — continued 

Bad  Wounds — the  Young  .  .  .  .  . 
The  Most  Inspiriting  of  all  War's  Shows  . 

Battle  of  Gettysburg 

A  Cavalry  Camp     ...  . 

A  New  York  Soldier 

Home-Made  Music  ...... 

Abraham  Lincoln    .          ...... 

Heated  Term  ....... 

Soldiers  and  Talks 

Death  of  a  Wisconsin  Officer    ..... 

Hospitals  Ensemble  .         .         ,          .          . 

A  Silent  Night  Ramble    .          .          . 
Spiritual  Characters  among  the  Soldiers       .          . 
Cattle  Droves  about  Washington        .          .         .      .    » 

Hospital  Perplexity  .         .          .         .         . 

Down  at  the  Front  .         .         .         *         .         . 

Paying  the  Bounties          ...         .'        .         * 

Rumors,  Changes,  Etc.    .          „          .          .          .         * 
Virginia  ........ 

Summer  of  1864     .          .          .          .          .          .         . 

A  New  Army  Organization  fit  for  America 

Death  of  a  Hero      .  

Hospital  Scenes  —  Incidents      ..... 

A  Yankee  Soldier 

Union  Prisoners  South      ...... 

Deserters 

A  Glimpse  of  War's  Hell-Scenes  .... 
Gifts  —  Money  —  Discrimination  .... 
Items  from  My  Note  Books  ..... 
A  Case  from  Second  Bull  Run  .... 

Army  Surgeons  —  Aid  Deficiencies    .... 

The  Blue  Everywhere 

A  Model  Hospital  .          .          .          .  »       • 

Boys  in  the  Army . 

Burial  of  a  Lady  Nurse    ...... 

Female  Nurses  for  Soldiers         ..... 

Southern  Escapees   .          .          .          .          .          .          • 

The  Capitol  by  Gas-Light 

The  Inauguration    .          .          .          .          .  . 

Attitude  of  Foreign  Governments  During  the  War 
The  Weather  —  Does  it  Sympathize  with  These  Times  ? 
Inauguration  Ball     ........ 

Scene  at  the  Capitol          .          .          .  .         . 

A  Yankee  Antique 

Wounds  and  Diseases       .          .          .          .    ,     •         • 
Death  of  President  Lincoln        ..... 
Sherman's  Army  Jubilation  —  its  Sudden  Stoppage 
No  Good  Portrait  of  Lincoln    . 


CONTENTS  vii 

SPECIMEN  DAYS  — continued  PAGE 

Released  Union  Prisoners  from  South           .          •          •          .  63 

Death  of  a  Pennsylvania  Soldier          .          .          .          •          •  64 

The  Armies  Returning    ......  66 

The  Grand  Review                      '",          .          .          .          .          .  67 

Western  Soldiers     .          .          .          ^         .          .         .          .67 

A  Soldier  on  Lincoln        .......  67 

Two  Brothers,  one  South,  one  North           .-         .          .          .  68 

Some  Sad  Cases  Yet          .      :     .         ^'                            .          .  68 

Calhoun's  Real  Monument        ....  69 

Hospitals  Closing     .                               70 

Typical  Soldiers       ........  71 

"  Convulsiveness  "             .......  71 

Three  Years  Summ'd  up                                 .  71 

The  Million  Dead,  too,  Summ'd  up             ....  71 

The  Real  War  will  never  get  in  the  Books           .  73 

An  Interregnum  Paragraph        ....                    .  75 

New  Themes  Enter' d  Upon 75 

Entering  a  Long  Farm-Lane 76 

To  the  Spring  and  Brook 76 

An  Early  Summer  Reveille        .          .          .         .          .         .  77 

Birds  Migrating  at  Midnight 77 

Bumble-Bees             .                    78 

Cedar-Apples            .                     80 

Summer  Sights  and  Indolences             .....  80 

Sundown  Perfume — Quail-Notes  —  the  Hermit  Thrush        .  81 

A  July  Afternoon  by  the  Pond 8 1 

Locusts  and  Katy-Dids 82 

The  Lesson  of  a  Tree      .......  83 

Autumn  Side-Bits   ........  84 

The  Sky  —  Days  and  Nights  —  Happiness           ...  85 

Colors  —  A  Contrast        .......  87 

November  8,  '76     . 87 

Crows  and  Crows     ........  87 

A  Winter-Day  on  the  Sea-Beach 87 

Sea-Shore  Fancies 88 

In  Memory  of  Thomas  Paine    ......  89 

A  Two  Hours'  Ice-Sail   .......  91 

Spring  Overtures  —  Recreations 91 

One  of  the  Human  Kinks         ......  92 

An  Afternoon  Scene         .          .          .         .          ,          .          .  9  a 

The  Gates  Opening 93 

The  Common  Earth,  the  Soil 93 

Birds  and  Birds  and  Birds 93 

Full-Starr' d  Nights 94 

Mulleins  and  Mulleins      .......  95 

Distant  Sounds         .                    96 

A  Sun-Bath  —  Nakedness          ......  96 

The  Oaks  and  I      . 98 


viii  CONTENTS 

SPECIMEN  DAYS—  continued 

A  Quintette 

The  First  Frost  —  Mems  .... 

Three  Young  Men's  Deaths     .... 

February  Days          ...... 

A  Meadow  Lark     ...... 

Sundown  Lights 

Thoughts  Under  an  Oak  —  A  Dream 

Clover  and  Hay  Perfume  .... 

An  Unknown  .         .   , 

Bird  Whistling         .         .         .         ... 

Horse-Mint     .          .         .         .         ... 

Three  of  Us  .          .          . 

Death  of  William  Cullen  Bryant 
Jaunt  up  the  Hudson         .          .          .          .         . 

Happiness  and  Raspberries          .          .          .          * 

A  Specimen  Tramp  Family       .    . 

Manhattan  from  the  Bay  .          .          .          . 

Human  and  Heroic  New  York  .         .          , 

Hours  for  the  Soul  ..... 

Straw-Color1  d  and  other  Psyches 

A  Night  Remembrance    ..... 

Wild  Flowers 

A  Civility  Too  Long  Neglected 

Delaware  River  —  Days  and  Nights    . 

Scenes  on  Ferry  and  River — Last  Winter's  Nights 

The  First  Spring  Day  on  Chestnut  Street    . 

Up  the  Hudson  to  Ulster  County 

Days  at  J.  B.'s —  Turf  Fires  —  Spring  Songs     . 

Meeting  a  Hermit    ...... 

An  Ulster  County  Waterfall      .... 

Walter  Dumont  and  his  Medal 

Hudson  River  Sights          ..... 

Two  City  Areas  Certain  Hours 

Central  Park  Walks  and  Talks 

A  Fine  Afternoon,  4.  to  6          .         .          .          * 

Departing  of  the  Big  Steamers  .... 

Two  Hours  on  the  Minnesota    .... 

Mature  Summer  Days  and  Nights 

Exposition  Building  —  New  City  Hall  —  River-Trip 

Swallows  on  the  River 

Begin  a  Long  Jaunt  West          .          .  . 

In  the  Sleeper  ...... 

Missouri  State  .          .          .          .          .         ... 

Lawrence  and  Topeka,  Kansas  .  . 

The  Prairies  —  (and  an  Undeliver'd  Speech) 
On  to  Denver — A  Frontier  Incident  .          . 

An  Hour  on  Kenosha  Summit  .... 

An  Egotistical  "Find'*   .         ,         .,.'',.      , 


CONTENTS 

SPECIMEN  DAYS  —  fouttHued  P^ 

New  Scenes  —  New  Joys  . 

Steam-Power,  Telegraphs,  Etc.  .  » 

America's  Back-Bone       .        ,.  »J 

The  Parks       .  ,3g 

Art  Features  .  J39 

Denver  Impressions 
I  Turn  South  and  then  East  Again    . 

Unfulfill'd  Wants  —the  Arkansas  River     .  4 

A  Silent  Little  Follower  -the  Coreopsis     . 

The  Prairies  and  Great  Plains  in  Poetry      .  J4 

The  Spanish  Peaks  -  Evening  on  the  Plains         . 
America's  Characteristic  Landscape    .  « 

Earth's  Most  Important  Stream 
Prairie  Analogies  —  the  Tree  Question        . 

Mississippi  Valley  Literature      .  ^ 

An  Interviewer's  Item  -  6 

The  Women  of  the  West          . 

The  Silent  General  • 

President  Hayes's  Speeches        . 

St.  Louis  Memoranda        .  g 

Nights  on  the  Mississippi  . 

Upon  our  Own  Land         . 

Edgar  Poe's  Significance  *» 

Beethoven's  Septette 

A  Hint  of  Wild  Nature.  * 

Loafing  in  the  Woods      .  * 

A  Contralto  Voice  . 


Seeing  Niagara  to  Advantage    . 
Jaunting  to  Canada  • 

Sunday  with  the  Insane 


153 


UU1IUU.Y  ICC 

Reminiscence  of  Elias  Hicks     .  «  - 

Grand  Native  Growth       . 

A  Zollverein  between  the  U.  S.  and  Canada        .  '55 

The  St.  Lawrence  Line     .  * 

The  Savage  Saguenay 

Capes  Eternity  and  Trinity        .  *' 

Chicoutimi,  and  Ha-ha  Bay       . 

The  Inhabitants  —  Good  Living        .  •* 

Cedar-Plums  Like  —  Names      .  JQ 

Death  of  Thomas  Carlyle 

Carlyle  from  American  Points  of  View        .          - 

A  Couple  of  Old  Friends  —  A  Coleridge  Bit     . 

A  Week's  Visit  to  Boston 


The  Boston  of  To-Day    . 

My  Tribute  to  Four  Poets         .  ^ 

Millet's  Pictures  —  Last  Items 


173 


—  and  a  Caution      .  %  /3 

Samples  of  my  Common-Place  Book 


x  CONTENTS 

SPECIMEN  DAYS— continued 

My  Native  Sand  and  Salt  Once  More  . 

Hot  Weather  New  York 

"Ouster's  Last  Rally" 

Some  Old  Acquaintances  —  Memories  . 

A  Discovery  of  Old  Age  ...... 

A  Visit,  at  the  Last,  to  R.  W.  Emerson    . 

Other  Concord  Notations  ...... 

Boston  Common  —  More  of  Emerson        . 

An  Ossianic  Night  —  Dearest  Friends         .          . 

Only  a  New  Ferry  Boat 

Death  of  Longfellow        ...          .          . 

Starting  Newspapers          .          .          .          .          . 

The  Great  Unrest  of  which  We  are  Part 

By  Emerson's  Grave         .          .         .         .         .          . 

At  Present  Writing  —  Personal 

After  Trying  a  Certain  Book  .  ,  v  '  •  . 
Final  Confessions — Literary  Tests  .  .  .  '^ 
Nature  and  Democracy  —  Morality  .  •  •  • 

COLLECT 

ONE  OR  Two  INDEX  ITEMS     .         .        .         ,        •        . 

•Jt    DEMOCRATIC  VlSTAS          .  .  .  .  .  ., 

ORIGINS  OF  ATTEMPTED  SECESSION  .         *         . 

PREFACES  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS" 

Preface,  1855,  to  first  issue  of  " Leaves  of  Grass" 
Preface,  1872,  to  "  As  a  Strong  Bird  on  Pinions  Free  " 
Preface,  1876,  to  L.  of  G.  and  "Two  Rivulets" 

POETRY  TO-DAY  IN  AMERICA  —  SHAKESPEARE — THE  FUTURE 

A  MEMORANDUM  AT  A  VENTURE     .         .         .        ..         . 

"""DEATH  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN         .         .         .         .         . 

Two  LETTERS       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         . 

NOTES  LEFT  OVER 

Nationality  (and  Yet)       .          .          .          .          .          . 

Emerson's  Books  (the  Shadows  of  Them)  ,         .         , 

Ventures,  on  an  Old  Theme      .          .         .          •         .         , 
British  Literature      .          .          .          .          ..         ,          .          , 

Darwinism  (then  Furthermore)  .         .         .         •         , 

"Society" 

The  Tramp  and  Strike  Questions  .          • 

Democracy  in  the  New  World  .          .         •         . 

Foundation  Stages  —  then  Others       .         •         . 
General  Suffrage,  Elections,  Etc.        .         . 
Who  Gets  the  Plunder  ?  .         .         ^       .         .'..-., 

Friendship  (the  Real  Article) 

Lacks  and  Wants  Yet       .         ..'.,     .-.  • 

Rulers  Strictly  Out  of  the  Masses 

Monuments — the  Past  and  Present   . 

Little  or  Nothing  New  After  All      V        .         .         • 


CONTENTS  xi 

COLLECT  —  continued  PAGE 

—•A  Lincoln  Reminiscence  .  .          •          •          •          331 

Freedom          .  33 J 
Book-Classes — America's  Literature          .          .         •          •          332 

Our  Real  Culmination       .  332 

An  American  Problem      .  .                               •          •          333 

The  Last  Collective  Compaction  .                             •          •         333 

PIECES  IN  EARLY  YOUTH 

Dough  Face  Song    .  ••-••••          334 

Death  in  the  School-Room         .  .                   •                              336 

One  Wicked  Impulse        ..  •          •                               34° 

The  Last  Loyalist    .  345 

Wild  Frank's  Return        .  -                             •                   35° 

The  Boy  Lover        .  •                                        354 

The  Child  and  the  Profligate     .  359 

Lingave's  Temptation       .  •                                                    365 

Little  Jane      ...  -                              .368 
Dumb  Kate    . 

Talk  to  an  Art  Union      .  .                    •                   •          37* 

Blood-Money  37* 

Wounded  in  the  House  of  Friends  .          .                    .                   373  - 

Sailing  the  Mississippi  at  Midnight  .                                                    374 

NOVEMBER  BOUGHS 

OUR  EMINENT  VISITORS,  Past,  Present  and  Future  377 

THE  BIBLE  AS  POETRY          .  381 

FATHER  TAYLOR  (AND  ORATORY)  385 

THE  SPANISH  ELEMENT  IN  OUR  NATIONALITY  388 

WHAT  LURKS  BEHIND  SHAKSPERE'S  HISTORICAL  PLAYS?  390 

A  THOUGHT  ON  SHAKSPERE  393 

ROBERT  BURNS  AS  POET  AND  PERSON  .                                              395 

A  WORD  ABOUT  TENNYSON  4°3 

SLANG  IN  AMERICA       .  4°6 

AN  INDIAN  BUREAU  REMINISCENCE  .                  4" 
SOME  DIARY  NOTES  AT  RANDOM 

Negro  Slaves  in  New  York        .  ...                   414" 

Canada  Nights                   .  4'4 

Country  Days  and  Nights  4*4 

Central  Park  Notes  4*5 

Plate  Glass  Notes    .  4l6 
SOME  WAR  MEMORANDA 

Washington  Street  Scenes          .  .                                       4l8 

The  1 9 5th  Pennsylvania  4*9 

Left-hand  Writing  by  Soldiers  .  .                                       4'9 

Central  Virginia  in '64     .  •                                         4*9 

Paying  the  First  Color' d  Troops  .          .                                         4*° 

FIVE  THOUSAND  POEMS  424 

THE  OLD  BOWERY        ..••••••         4i6 


xii  CONTENTS 

NOVEMBER  BOUGHS —continued 

NOTES  TO  LATE  ENGLISH  BOOKS 

Preface  to  Reader  in  British  Islands   . 

Additional  Note,  1887 

Preface  to  English  Edition  "Democratic  Vistas" 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

NEW  ORLEANS  IN  1848 

SMALL  MEMORANDA 

Attorney  General's  Office,  1865         .          .          .  '• '  . 

"  A  Glint  Inside  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  Cabinet  Appointments 

Note  to  a  Friend  '   . 

Written  Impromptu  in  an  Album       .          ... 

The  Place  Gratitude  fills  in  a  Fine  Character       .         . 

LAST  OF  THE  WAR  CASES 

•••-  ELIAS  HICKS,  Notes  (such  as  they  are)       . 

George  Fox  and  Shakspere         ...»«. 

GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  REJOINDER . 

OLD  POETS 

Ship  Ahoy      ......... 

For  Queen  Victoria's  Birthday  ...... 

AMERICAN  NATIONAL  LITERATURE  ...... 

GATHERING  THE  CORN 

A  DEATH  BOUQUET        .  .  .... 

SOME  LAGGARDS  YET 

The  Perfect  Human  Voice 

Shakspere  for  America      ....... 

"Unassailed  Renown"     .          .          .          .          .  . 

Inscription  for  a  Little  Book  on  Giordano  Bruno 

Splinters          .  ........ 

Health  (Old  Style)  

Gay-heartedness       ........ 

As  in  a  Swoon          ........ 

L.  of  G 

After  the  Argument 

For  Us  Two,  Reader  Dear        ...... 

MEMORANDA 

A  World's  Show 

New  York — the  Bay  —  the  Old  Name      . 

A  Sick  Spell 

To  be  Present  Only          . 

"  Intestinal  Agitation"    .          .          .          .          .          .          . 

"Walt  Whitman's  Last  'Public'  "  .         .    •     V 

IngersolPs  Speech    .          ..        .          .          .          .          .     .    . 

Feeling  Fairly          .          .          .          .          *          .          .         4 

Old  Brooklyn  Days  .          .          .          .     '     . 

Two  Questions        „          .          .          .         •         .*/        . 

Preface  to  a  Volume 


CONTENTS 

GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  -  coutmiud 

An  Engineer's  Obituary  -          • 

Old  Actors,  Singers,  Shows,  Etc.,  in  New  York 

Some  Personal  and  Old  Age  Jottings  5  » 

Out  in  the  Open  Again    .  • 

America's  Bulk  Average 

Last  Saved  Items     .  • 


5*6 
WALT  WHITMAN'S  LAST 


SPECIMEN  DAYS 


SPECIMEN    DAYS 


A  HAPPY  HOUR'S         Down  in  the  Woods,  July  2dt  1882.  —  If 
COMMAND  I  do  it  at  all  I  must  delay  no  longer.     In 

congruous  and  full  of  skips  and  jumps  as  is 

that  huddle  of  diary -jottings,  war-memoranda  of  1862-^65,  Nature- 
notes  of  i877-'8i,  with  Western  and  Canadian  observations  after 
wards,  all  bundled  up  and  tied  by  a  big  string,  the  resolution  and  indeed 
mandate  comes  to  me  this  day,  this  hour,  —  (and  what  a  day  !  what 
an  hour  just  passing!  the  luxury  of  riant  grass  and  blowing  breeze, 
with  all  the  shows  of  sun  and  sky  and  perfect  temperature,  never 
before  so  filling  me,  body  and  soul),—  to  go  home,  untie  the  bundle 
reel  out  diary-scraps  and  memoranda,  just  as  they  are,  large  or  small, 
one  after  another,  into  print-pages/  and  let  the  melange's  lackings 

*  The   pages  from  i   to    1 5  are  nearly  verbatim   an   off-hand   letter  of 
mine  in  January,  1882,  to  an   insisting  friend.      Following,    I  give   some 
gloomy  experiences.      The  war  of  attempted  secession  has,  of  course,  been 
the  distinguishing  event  of  my  time.      I  commenced  at  the  close  of   1862, 
and  continued  steadily  through  '63,  '64  and  '65,   to  visit  the   sick  and 
wounded  of  the  army,  both  on  the  field  and  in  the  hospitals  in  and  aroi 
Washington  city.      From  the  first  I  kept  little  note-books  for  impromptu 
jottings  in  pencil  to  refresh  my  memory  of  names  and  circumstances,   and 
what  was  specially  wanted,  &c.      In  these,  I  brief  d  cases,  persons,  sights, 
occurrences  in  camp,  by  the  bed-side,  and  not  seldom  by  the  corpses  of  the 
dead.    Some  were  scratched  down  from  narratives  I  heard  and  itemized  whi 
watching,  or  waiting,    or  tending  somebody  amid  those   scenes.       [   have 
dozens  of  such  little  note-books  left,    forming  a  special  history   of  those 
years,  for  myself  alone,  full  of  associations  never  to  be  possibly   said   or 
sung.      I  wish  I  could  convey  to  the  reader  the  associations   that   attach  to 
these  soil' d  and  creas'd   livraisons,  each   composed   of  a  sheet   or  two   of 
paper,  folded  small  to  carry  in  the  pocket,    and  fasten' d  with  a   pin 
leave  them  just  as  I  threw  them  by  after  the  war,  blotch' d   here  and  there 
with    more    than    one    blood-stain,    hurriedly    written,    sometimes    at  the 
clinique,  not  seldom  amid  the  excitement  of  uncertainty,  or   defeat,    or   ot 
action,   or  getting  ready  for   it,   or  a  march.       Most  of  the  pages  from 
ao  to  75  are  verbatim  copies  of  those  lurid  and  blood-smuch' d  little  note- 
Very  different  are  most  of  the  memoranda  that  follow.     Some  time  after 


2    _;   /      COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and^ty^ijt^Qf  icbrmettyqn;  take,  care  of  themselves.  It  will  illustrate 
one  phase  of  humanity  anyhow;  how  few  of  life's  days  and  hours 
(and  they  not  by  relative  value  or  proportion,  but  by  chance)  are 
ever  noted.  Probably  another  point,  too,  how  we  give  long  prepara 
tions  for  some  object,  planning  and  delving  and  fashioning,  and  then, 
when  the  actual  hour  for  doing  arrives,  find  ourselves  still  quite  un 
prepared,  and  tumble  the  thing  together,  letting  hurry  and  crudeness 
tell  the  story  better  than  fine  work.  At  any  rate  I  obey  my  happy 
hour's  command,  which  seems  curiously  imperative.  May  be,  if  I 
don't  do  anything  else,  I  shall  send  out  the  most  wayward,  spontane 
ous,  fragmentary  book  ever  printed. 

ANSWER  TO  AN  You    ask    for    items,  details  of  my  early 

INSISTING  FRIEND       life  — of  genealogy  and  parentage,  partic 
ularly    of  the    women    of  my    ancestry, 

and  of  its  far-back  Netherlands  stock  on  the  maternal  side  —  of  the 
region  where  I  was  born  and  raised,  and  my  mother  and  father  before 
me,  and  theirs  before  them  —  with  a  word  about  Brooklyn  and  New 
York  cities,  the  times  I  lived  there  as  lad  and  young  man.  You  say  you 
want  to  get  at  these  details  mainly  as  the  go-befores  and  embryons  of 
"Leaves  of  Grass."  Very  good;  you  shall  have  at  least  some 
specimens  of  them  all.  I  have  often  thought  of  the  meaning  of  such 
things  —  that  one  can  only  encompass  and  complete  matters  of  that 
kind  by  exploring  behind,  perhaps  very  far  behind,  themselves 
directly,  and  so  into  their  genesis,  antecedents,  and  cumulative  stages. 
Then  as  luck  would  have  it,  I  lately  whiled  away  the  tedium  of  a 

the  war  ended  I  had  a  paralytic  stroke,  which  prostrated  me  for  several 
years.  In  1876  I  began  to  get  over  the  worst  of  it.  From  this  date, 
portions  of  several  seasons,  especially  summers,  I  spent  at  a  secluded  haunt 
down  in  Camden  county,  New  Jersey — Timber  creek,  quite  a  little  river 
(it  enters  from  the  great  Delaware,  twelve  miles  away)  —  with  primitive 
solitudes,  winding  stream,  recluse  and  woody  banks,  sweet-feeding  springs, 
and  all  the  charms  that  birds,  grass,  wild-flowers,  rabbits  and  squirrels,  old 
oaks,  walnut  trees,  &c.,  can  bring.  Through  these  times,  and  on  these 
spots,  the  diary  from  page  76  onward  was  mostly  written. 

The  COLLECT  afterwards  gathers  up  the  odds  and  ends  of  whatever 
pieces  I  can  now  lay  hands  on,  written  at  various  times  past,  and  swoops 
all  together  like  fish  in  a  net. 

I  suppose  I  publish  and  leave  the  whole  gathering,  first,  from  that 
eternal  tendency  to  perpetuate  and  preserve  which  is  behind  all  Nature, 
authors  included  j  second,  to  symbolize  two  or  three  specimen  interiors, 
personal  and  other,  out  of  the  myriads  of  my  time,  the  middle  range  of  the 
Nineteenth  century  in  the  New  World;  a  strange,  unloosened,  wondrous 
time.  But  the  book  is  probably  without  any  definite  purpose  that  can  be 
told  in  a  statement. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  3 

week's  half-sickness  and  confinement,  by  collating  these  very  items 
for  another  (yet  unfulfilled,  probably  abandoned,)  purpose  ;  and  if 
you  will  be  satisfied  with  them,  authentic  in  date-occurrence  and  fact 
simply,  and  told  my  own  way,  garrulous-like,  here  they  are.  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  make  extracts,  for  I  catch  at  anything  to  save  labor ; 
but  those  will  be  the  best  versions  of  what  I  want  to  convey. 

GENEALOGY — VAN  The  later  years  of  the  last  century  found 
VELSOR  AND  the  Van  Velsor  family,  my  mother's  side, 

WHITMAN  living  on  their  own  farm  at  Cold  Spring, 

Long    Island,    New     York    State,    near 

the  eastern  edge  of  Queen's  county,  about  a  mile  from  the  har 
bor.*  My  father's  side  —  probably  the  fifth  generation  from  the  first 
English  arrivals  in  New  England  —  were  at  the  same  time  farmers  on 
their  own  land —  (and  a  fine  domain  it  was,  500  acres,  all  good  soil, 
gently  sloping  east  and  south,  about  one-tenth  woods,  plenty  of  grand 
old  trees,)  two  or  three  miles  off,  at  West  Hills,  Suffolk  county. 
The  Whitman  name  in  the  Eastern  States,  and  so  branching  West 
and  South,  starts  undoubtedly  from  one  John  Whitman,  born  1602, 
in  Old  England,  where  he  grew  up,  married,  and  his  eldest  son  was 
born  in  1629.  He  came  over  in  the  "True  Love"  in  1640  to 
America,  and  lived  in  Weymouth,  Mass.,  which  place  became  the 
mother-hive  of  the  New-Englanders  of  the  name;  he  died  in  1692. 
His  brother,  Rev.  Zechariah  Whitman,  also  came  over  in  the  "  True 
Love,"  either  at  that  time  or  soon  after,  and  lived  at  Milford,  Conn. 
A  son  of  this  Zechariah,  named  Joseph,  migrated  to  Huntington, 
Long  Island,  and  permanently  settled  there.  Savage's  "  Genealogi 
cal  Dictionary"  (vol.  iv,  p.  524)  gets  the  Whitman  family  estab- 
lish'd  at  Huntington,'  per  this  Joseph,  before  1664.  It  is  quite  cer 
tain  that  from  that  beginning,  and  from  Joseph,  the  West  Hill 
Whitmans,  and  all  others  in  Suffolk  county,  have  since  radiated, 
myself  among  the  number.  John  and  Zechariah  both  went  to 
England  and  back  again  divers  times;  they  had  large  families,  and 
several  of  their  children  were  born  in  the  old  country.  We  hear  of 
the  father  of  John  and  Zechariah,  Abijah  Whitman,  who  goes  over 
into  the  1500*3,  but  we  know  little  about  him,  except  that  he  also 
was  for  some  time  in  America. 

These  old  pedigree-reminiscences  come  up  to  me  vividly  from  a 
visit  I  made  not  long  since  (in  my  63d  year)  to  West  Hills,  and  to 

*  Long  Island  was  settled  first  on  the  west  end  by  the  Dutch  from  Hol 
land,  then  on  the  east  end  by  the  English  —  the  dividing  line  of  the  two 
nationalities  being  a  little  west  of  Huntington,  where  my  father's  folks  lived, 
and  where  I  was  born. 


4  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  burial  grounds  of  my  ancestry,  both  sides.      I  extract  from  notes 
of  that  visit,  written  there  and  then: 

THE  OLD  WHIT-  July  29,  1881.  —  After  more  than  forty 
MAN  AND  VAN  years'  absence,  (except  a  brief  visit,  to 

VELSOR    CEME-  take  my  father  there  once  more,  two  years 

TERIES  before  he  died,)  went  down  Long  Island 

on  a  week' s  jaunt  to  the  place  where  I  was 

born,  thirty  miles  from  New  York  city.  Rode  around  the  old  familiar 
spots,  viewing  and  pondering  and  dwelling  long  upon  them,  every 
thing  coming  back  to  me.  Went  to  the  old  Whitman  homestead  on 
the  upland  and  took  a  view  eastward,  inclining  south,  over  the  broad 
and  beautiful  farm  lands  of  my  grandfather  (1780,)  and  my  father. 
There  was  the  new  house  (1810,)  the  big  oak  a  hundred  and  fifty 
or  two  hundred  years  old;  there  the  well,  the  sloping  kitchen-garden, 
and  a  little  way  off  even  the  well-kept  remains  of  the  dwelling  of  my 
great-grandfather  (1750-' 60)  still  standing,  with  its  mighty  timbers 
and  low  ceilings.  Near  by,  a  stately  grove  of  tall,  vigorous  black- 
walnuts,  beautiful,  Apollo-like,  the  sons  or  grandsons,  no  doubt,  of 
black-walnuts  during  or  before  1776.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
road  spread  the  famous  apple  orchard,  over  twenty  acres,  the  trees 
planted  by  hands  long  mouldering  in  the  grave  (my  uncle  Jesse's,) 
but  quite  many  of  them  evidently  capable  of  throwing  out  their  an 
nual  blossoms  and  fruit  yet. 

I  now  write  these  lines  seated  on  an  old  grave  (doubtless  of  a  cen 
tury  since  at  least)  on  the  burial  hill  of  the  Whitmans  of  many  gen 
erations.  Fifty  or  more  graves  are  quite  plainly  traceable,  and  as 
many  more  decay'd  out  of  all  form  —  depressed  mounds,  crumbled 
and  broken  stones,  cover' d  with  moss  —  the  gray  and  sterile  hill,  the 
clumps  of  chestnuts  outside,  the  silence,  just  varied  by  the  soughing 
wind.  There  is  always  the  deepest  eloquence  of  sermon  or  poem  in 
any  of  these  ancient  graveyards  of  which  Long  Island  has  so  many; 
so  what  must  this  one  have  been  to  me  ?  My  whole  family  history, 
with  its  succession  of  links,  from  the  first  settlement  down  to  date, 
told  here  —  three  centuries  concentrate  on  this  sterile  acre. 

The  next  day,  July  30,  I  devoted  to  the  maternal  locality,  and  if 
possible  was  still  more  penetrated  and  impress' d.  I  write  this  para 
graph  on  the  burial  hill  of  the  Van  Velsors,  near  Cold  Spring,  the 
most  significant  depository  of  the  dead  that  could  be  imagin'd,  with 
out  the  slightest  help  from  art,  but  far  ahead  of  it,  soil  sterile,  a 
mostly  bare  plateau-flat  of  half  an  acre,  the  top  of  a  hill,  brush  and 
well  grown  trees  and  dense  woods  bordering  all  around,  very  primi 
tive,  secluded,  no  visitors,  no  road  (you  cannot  drive  here,  you  have 
to  bring  the  dead  on  foot,  and  follow  on  foot.)  Two  or  three-score 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  5 

graves  quite  plain;  as  many  more  almost  rubb'd  out.  My  grand 
father  Cornelius  and  my  grandmother  Amy  (Naomi)  and  numerous 
relatives  nearer  or  remoter,  on  my  mother's  side,  lie  buried  here. 
The  scene  as  I  stood  or  sat,  the  delicate  and  wild  odor  of  the  woods, 
a  slightly  drizzling  rain,  the  emotional  atmosphere  of  the  place,  and 
the  inferred  reminiscences,  were  fitting  accompaniments. 

THE  MATERNAL  I  went  down  from  this  ancient  grave  place 
HOMESTEAD  eighty  or  ninety  rods  to  the  site  of  the  Van 

Velsor  homestead,  where  my  mother  was 

born  (1795,)  and  where  every  spot  had  been  familiar  to  me  as  a 
child  and  youth  (1825-' 40.)  Then  stood  there  a  long  rambling, 
dark-gray,  shingle-sided  house,  with  sheds,  pens,  a  great  barn,  and 
much  open  road-space.  Now  of  all  those  not  a  vestige  left ;  all  had 
been  pull'd  down,  erased,  and  the  plough  and  harrow  pass'd  over 
foundations,  road-spaces  and  everything,  for  many  summers ;  fenced 
in  at  present,  and  grain  and  clover  growing  like  any  other  fine  fields. 
Only  a  big  hole  from  the  cellar,  with  some  little  heaps  of  broken 
stone,  green  with  grass  and  weeds,  identified  the  place.  Even  the 
copious  old  brook  and  spring  seem'd  to  have  mostly  dwindled  away. 
The  whole  scene,  with  what  it  arous'd,  memories  of  my  young  days 
there  half  a  century  ago,  the  vast  kitchen  and  ample  fireplace  and  the 
sitting-room  adjoining,  the  plain  furniture,  the  meals,  the  house  full 
of  merry  people,  my  grandmother  Amy's  sweet  old  face  in  its 
Quaker  cap,  my  grandfather  "the  Major,"  jovial,  red,  stout,  with 
sonorous  voice  and  characteristic  physiognomy,  with  the  actual  sights 
themselves,  made  the  most  pronounc'd  half-day's  experience  of  my 
whole  jaunt. 

For  there  with  all  those  wooded,  hilly,  healthy  surroundings,  my 
dearest  mother,  Louisa  Van  Velsor,  grew  up  —  (her  mother,  Amy 
Williams,  of  the  Friends'  or  Quakers'  denomination  —  the  Williams 
family,  seven  sisters  and  one  brother —  the  father  and  brother  sailors, 
both  of  whom  met  their  deaths  at  sea.)  The  Van  Velsor  people 
were  noted  for  fine  horses,  which  the  men  bred  and  train'd  from 
blooded  stock.  My  mother,  as  a  young  woman,  was  a  daily  and 
daring  rider.  As  to  the  head  of  the  family  himself,  the  old  race  of 
the  Netherlands,  so  deeply  grafted  on  Manhattan  island  and  in  Kings 
and  Queens  counties,  never  yielded  a  more  mark'd  and  full  American 
ized  specimen  than  Major  Cornelius  Van  Velsor. 

TWO  OLD  FAMILY  Of  the  domestic  and  inside  life  of  the 
INTERIORS  middle  of  Long  Island,  at  and  just  before 

that  time,  here  are  two  samples  : 

"The  Whitmans,  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  lived  in  a 


6  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

long  story-and-a-half  farm-house,  hugely  timbered,  which  is  still  standing. 
A  great  smoke-canopied  kitchen,  with  vast  hearth  and  chimney,  form'd 
one  end  of  the  house.  The  existence  of  slavery  in  New  York  at  that  time, 
and  the  possession  by  the  family  of  some  twelve  or  fifteen  slaves,  house  and 
field  servants,  gave  things  quite  a  patriarchial  look.  The  very  young 
darkies  could  be  seen,  a  swarm  of  them,  toward  sundown,  in  this  kitchen, 
squatted  in  a  circle  on  the  floor,  eating  their  supper  of  Indian  pudding  and 
milk.  In  the  house,  and  in  food  and  furniture,  all  was  rude,  but  substan 
tial.  No  carpets  or  stoves  were  known,  and  no  coffee,  and  tea  or  sugar 
only  for  the  women.  Rousing  wood  fires  gave  both  warmth  and  light  on 
winter  nights.  Pork,  poultry,  beef,  and  all  the  ordinary  vegetables  and 
grains  were  plentiful.  Cider  was  the  men's  common  drink,  and  used  at 
meals.  The  clothes  were  mainly  homespun.  Journeys  were  made  by  both 
men  and  women  on  horseback.  Both  sexes  labored  with  their  own  hands 
—  the  men  on  the  farm  —  the  women  in  the  house  and  around  it.  Books 
were  scarce.  The  annual  copy  of  the  almanac  was  a  treat,  and  was  pored 
over  through  the  long  winter  evenings.  I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that 
both  these  families  were  near  enough  to  the  sea  to  behold  it  from  the  high 
places,  and  to  hear  in  still  hours  the  roar  of  the  surf  j  the  latter,  after  a 
storm,  giving  a  peculiar  sound  at  night.  Then  all  hands,  male  and  female, 
went  down  frequently  on  beach  and  bathing  parties,  and  the  men  on  practi 
cal  expeditions  for  cutting  salt  hay,  and  for  clamming  and  fishing."  — > 
yohn  Burroughs' s  NOTES. 

"The  ancestors  of  Walt  Whitman,  on  both  the  paternal  and  maternal 
sides,  kept  a  good  table,  sustained  the  hospitalities,  decorums,  and  an  ex 
cellent  social  reputation  in  the  county,  and  they  were  often  of  mark'd  in 
dividuality.  If  space  permitted,  I  should  consider  some  of  the  men 
worthy  special  description  5  and  still  more  some  of  the  women.  His  great- 
grandmother  on  the  paternal  side,  for  instance,  was  a  large  swarthy  woman, 
who  lived  to  a  very  old  age.  She  smoked  tobacco,  rode  on  horseback  like 
a  man,  managed  the  most  vicious  horse,  and,  becoming  a  widow  in  later 
life,  went  forth  every  day  over  her  farm-lands,  frequently  in  the  saddle, 
directing  the  labor  of  her  slaves,  in  language  in  which,  on  exciting  occa 
sions,  oaths  were  not  spared.  The  two  immediate  grandmothers  were,  in 
the  best  sense,  superior  women.  The  maternal  one  (Amy  Williams  before 
marriage)  was  a  Friend,  or  Quakeress,  of  sweet,  sensible  character,  house 
wifely  proclivities,  and  deeply  intuitive  and  spiritual.  The  other  (Hannah 
Brush,)  was  an  equally  noble,  perhaps  stronger  character,  lived  to  be  very 
old,  had  quite  a  family  of  sons,  was  a  natural  lady,  was  in  early  life  a 
school-mistress,  and  had  great  solidity  of  mind.  W.  W.  himself  makes 
much  of  the  women  of  his  ancestry."  —  The  Same. 

Out  from  these  arrieres  of  persons  and  scenes,  I  was  born  May 
31,  1819.  And  now  to  dwell  awhile  on  the  locality  itself — as  the 
successive  growth-stages  of  my  infancy,  childhood,  youth  and  man 
hood  were  all  pass'd  on  Long  Island,  which  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I 
had  incorporated.  I  roam'd,  as  boy  and  man,  and  have  lived  in 
nearly  all  parts,  from  Brooklyn  to  Montauk  point. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  7 

PAUMANOK,  AND  Worth  fully  and  particularly  investigating 
MY  LIFE  ON  IT  indeed  this  Paumanok,  (to  give  the  spot 
AS  CHILD  AND  its  aboriginal  name,*)  stretching  east 

YOUNG    MAN  through  Kings,  Queens  and  Suffolk  coun 

ties,  I  20  miles  altogether  —  on  the  north 

Long  Island  sound,  a  beautiful,  varied  and  picturesque  series  of 
inlets,  "necks'*  and  sea-like  expansions,  for  a  hundred  miles  to 
Orient  point.  On  the  ocean  side  the  great  south  bay  dotted 
with  countless  hummocks,  mostly  small,  some  quite  large,  occa 
sionally  long  bars  of  sand  out  two  hundred  rods  to  a  mile-and-a- 
half  from  the  shore.  While  now  and  then,  as  at  Rockaway  and  far 
east  along  the  Hamptons,  the  beach  makes  right  on  the  island,  the 
sea  dashing  up  without  intervention.  Several  light-houses  on  the 
shores  east ;  a  long  history  of  wrecks  tragedies,  some  even  of  late 
years.  As  a  youngster,  I  was  in  the  atmosphere  and  traditions  of 
many  of  these  wrecks  —  of  one  or  two  almost  an  observer.  Off 
Hempstead  beach  for  example,  was  the  loss  of  the  ship  "Mexico'' 
in  1840,  (alluded  to  in  "the  Sleepers"  in  L.  of  G.)  And  at 
Hampton,  some  years  later,  the  destruction  of  the  brig  "  Elizabeth," 
a  fearful  affair,  in  one  of  the  worst  winter  gales,  where  Margaret 
Fuller  went  down,  with  her  husband  and  child. 

Inside  the  outer  bars  or  beach  this  south  bay  is  everywhere  com 
paratively  shallow  ;  of  cold  winters  all  thick  ice  on  the  surface.  As 
a  boy  I  often  went  forth  with  a  chum  or  two,  on  those  frozen  fields, 
with  hand-sled,  axe  and  eel-spear,  after  messes  of  eels.  We  would 
cut  holes  in  the  ice,  sometimes  striking  quite  an  eel-bonanza,  and  fill 
ing  our  baskets  with  great,  fat,  sweet,  white-meated  fellows.  The 
scenes,  the  ice,  drawing  the  hand-sled,  cutting  holes,  spearing  the 
eels,  &c.,  were  of  course  just  such  fun  as  is  dearest  to  boyhood. 
The  shores  of  this  bay,  winter  and  summer,  and  my  doings  there  in 
early  life,  are  woven  all  through  L.  of  G.  One  sport  I  was  very 
fond  of  was  to  go  on  a  bay-party  in  summer  to  gather  sea-gull's  eggs. 
(The  gulls  lay  two  or  three  eggs,  more  than  half  the  size  of  hen's 
eggs,  right  on  the  sand,  and  leave  the  sun's  heat  to  hatch  them.) 

*  "  Paumanok,  (or  Paumanake,  or  Paumanack,  the  Indian  name  of 
Long  Island,)  over  a  hundred  miles  long;  shaped  like  a  fish  —  plenty  of  sea 
shore,  sandy,  stormy,  uninviting,  the  horizon  boundless,  the  air  too  strong 
for  invalids,  the  bays  a  wonderful  resort  for  aquatic  birds,  the  south-side 
meadows  cover' d  with  salt  hay,  the  soil  of  the  island  generally  tough,  but 
good  for  the  locust-tree,  the  apple  orchard,  and  the  blackberry,  and  with 
numberless  springs  of  the  sweetest  water  in  the  world.  Years  ago,  among 
the  bay-men  —  a  strong,  wild  race,  now  extinct,  or  rather  entirely  changed 
—  a  native  of  Long  Island  was  called  a  Paumanacker,  or  Creole-Tauma- 
nacker"  — John  Burroughs. 


8  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

The  eastern  end  of  Long  Island,  the  Peconic  bay  region,  I  knew 
quite  well  too  —  sail'd  more  than  once  around  Shelter  island,  and 
down  to  Montauk — spent  many  an  hour  on  Turtle  hill  by  the  old 
light-house,  on  the  extreme  point,  looking  out  over  the  ceaseless  roll 
of  the  Atlantic.  I  used  to  like  to  go  down  there  and  fraternize  with 
the  blue-fishers,  or  the  annual  squads  of  sea-bass  takers.  Sometimes, 
along  Montauk  peninsula,  (it  is  some  15  miles  long,  and  good  graz 
ing,)  met  the  strange,  unkempt,  half-barbarous  herdsmen,  at  that 
time  living  there  entirely  aloof  from  society  or  civilization,  in  charge, 
on  those  rich  pasturages,  of  vast  droves  of  horses,  kine  or  sheep, 
own'd  by  farmers  of  the  eastern  towns.  Sometimes,  too,  the  few 
remaining  Indians,  or  half-breeds,  at  that  period  left  on  Montauk 
peninsula,  but  now  I  believe  altogether  extinct. 

More  in  the  middle  of  the  island  were  the  spreading  Hempstead 
plains,  then  (1830-' 40)  quite  prairie-like,  open,  uninhabited,  rather 
sterile,  cover' d  with  kill-calf  and  huckleberry  bushes,  yet  plenty  of 
fair  pasture  for  the  cattle,  mostly  milch-cows,  who  fed  there  by 
hundreds,  even  thousands,  and  at  evening,  (the  plains  too  were 
own'd  by  the  towns,  and  this  was  the  use  of  them  in  common,) 
might  be  seen  taking  their  way  home,  branching  off  regularly  in  the 
right  places.  I  have  often  been  out  on  the  edges  of  these  plains 
toward  sundown,  and  can  yet  recall  in  fancy  the  interminable  cow- 
processions,  and  hear  the  music  of  the  tin  or  copper  bells  clanking 
far  or  near,  and  breathe  the  cool  of  the  sweet  and  slightly  aromatic 
evening  air,  and  note  the  sunset. 

Through  the  same  region  of  the  island,  but  further  east,  ex 
tended  wide  central  tracts  of  pine  and  scrub-oak,  (charcoal  was 
largely  made  here,)  monotonous  and  sterile.  But  many  a  good  day 
or  half-day  did  I  have,  wandering  through  those  solitary  cross-roads, 
inhaling  the  peculiar  and  wild  aroma.  Here,  and  all  along  the 
island  and  its  shores,  I  spent  intervals  many  years,  all  seasons,  some 
times  riding,  sometimes  boating,  but  generally  afoot,  (I  was  always 
then  a  good  walker,)  absorbing  fields,  shores,  marine  incidents, 
characters,  the  bay-men,  farmers,  pilots  —  always  had  a  plentiful 
acquaintance  with  the  latter,  and  with  fishermen  —  went  .  every 
summer  on  sailing  trips  —  always  liked  the  bare  sea-beach,  south 
side,  and  have  some  of  my  happiest  hours  on  it  to  this  day. 

As  I  write,  the  whole  experience  comes  back  to  me  after  the 
lapse  of  forty  and  more  years — the  soothing  rustle  of  the  waves, 
and  the  saline  smell  —  boyhood's  times,  the  clam-digging,  bare-foot, 
and  with  trowsers  roll'd  up  —  hauling  down  the  creek  —  the  per 
fume  of  the  sedge-meadows  —  the  hay-boat,  and  the  chowder  and 
fishing  excursions  ; —  or,  of  later  years,  little  voyages  down  and  out 
New  York  bay,  in  the  pilot  boats.  Those  same  later  years,  also, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS.  9 

while  living  in  Brooklyn,  (1836-*  50)  I  went  regularly  every  week 
in  the  mild  seasons  down  to  Coney  Island,  at  that  time  a  long,  bare 
unfrequented  shore,  which  I  had  all  to  myself,  and  where  I  loved, 
after  bathing,  to  race  up  and  down  the  hard  sand,  and  declaim 
Homer  or  Shakspere  to  the  surf  and  sea  gulls  by  the  hour.  But  I  am 
getting  ahead  too  rapidly,  and  must  keep  more  in  my  traces. 

MY    FIRST    READ-        From   1824  to  '28   our  family   lived   in 
ING LAFAYETTE        Brooklyn  in  Front,   Cranberry  and  John 
son    streets.       In    the    latter    my    father 

built  a  nice  house  for  a  home,  and  afterwards  another  in  Tillary 
street.  We  occupied  them,  one  after  the  other,  but  they  were 
mortgaged,  and  we  lost  them.  I  yet  remember  Lafayette's  visit.* 
Most  of  these  years  I  went  to  the  public  schools.  It  must  have 
been  about  1829  or  '30  that  I  went  with  my  father  and  mother 
to  hear  Elias  Hicks  preach  in  a  ball-room  on  Brooklyn  heights.  At 
about  the  same  time  employ 'd  as  a  boy  in  an  office,  lawyers',  father 
and  two  sons,  Clarke's,  Fulton  street,  near  Orange.  I  had  a  nice 
desk  and  window-nook  to  myself;  Edward  C.  kindly  help'd  me  at 
my  handwriting  and  composition,  and,  (the  signal  event  of  my  life 
up  to  that  time,)  subscribed  for  me  to  a  big  circulating  library.  For 
a  time  I  now  revePd  in  romance-reading  of  all  kinds  ;  first,  the 
"Arabian  Nights,"  all  the  volumes,  an  amazing  treat.  Then,  with 
sorties  in  very  many  other  directions,  took  in  Walter  Scott's  novels, 
one  after  another,  and  his  poetry,  (and  continue  to  enjoy  novels  and 
poetry  to  this  day.) 

PRINTING    OFFICE      After  about  two  years  went  to  work  in 

OLD    BROOKLYN      a  weekly   newspaper  and  printing  office, 

to  learn  the  trade.       The  paper  was  the 

"Long  Island  Patriot,"  owned  by  S.  E.  Clements,  who  was  also 
postmaster.  An  old  printer  in  the  office,  William  Hartshorne,  a 

*  "On  the  visit  of  General  Lafayette  to  this  country,  in  1824,  he  came 
over  to  Brooklyn  in  state,  and  rode  through  the  city.  The  children  of  the 
schools  turn'd  out  to  join  in  the  welcome.  An  edifice  for  a  free  public 
library  for  youths  was  just  then  commencing,  and  Lafayette  consented  to 
stop  on  his  way  and  lay  the  corner-stone.  Numerous  children  arriving  on 
the  ground,  where  a  huge  irregular  excavation  for  the  building  was  already 
dug,  surrounded  with  heaps  of  rough  stone,  several  gentlemen  assisted  in 
lifting  the  children  to  safe  or  convenient  spots  to  see  the  ceremony. 
Among  the  rest,  Lafayette,  also  helping  the  children, took  up  the  five-year- 
old  Walt  Whitman,  and  pressing  the  child  a  moment  to  his  breast,  and 
giving  him  a  kiss,  handed  him  down  to  a  safe  spot  in  the  excavation."— 
Jobn  Burroughs. 


jo  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

revolutionary  character,  who  had  seen  Washington,  was  a  special 
friend  of  mine,  and  I  had  many  a  talk  with  him  about  long 
past  times.  The  apprentices,  including  myself,  boarded  with  his 
grand-daughter.  I  used  occasionally  to  go  out  riding  with  the  boss, 
who  was  very  kind  to  us  boys ;  Sundays  he  took  us  all  to  a  great  old 
rough,  fortress-looking  stone  church,  on  Joralemon  street,  near 
where  the  Brooklyn  city  hall  now  is  —  (at  that  time  broad  fields  and 
country  roads  everywhere  around.*)  Afterward  I  work'd  on  the 
"Long  Island  Star,"  Alden  Spooner's  paper.  My  father  all  these 
years  pursuing  his  trade  as  carpenter  and  builder,  with  varying  for 
tune.  There  was  a  growing  family  of  children  —  eight  of  us  —  my 
brother  Jesse  the  oldest,  myself  the  second,  my  dear  sisters  Mary  and 
Hannah  Louisa,  my  brothers  Andrew,  George,  Thomas  Jefferson, 
and  then  my  youngest  brother,  Edward,  born  1835,  and  always 
badly  crippled,  as  I  am  myself  of  late  years. 

GROWTH-  I  developed   (1833-4-5)  into  a  healthy, 

HEALTH  — WORK         strong  youth  (grew  too  fast,  though,  was 

nearly  as    big    as    a  man  at  15  or   16.) 

Our  family  at  this  period  moved  back  to  the  country,  my  dear  mother 
very  ill  for  a  long  time,  but  recover' d.  All  these  years  I  was  down 
Long  Island  more  or  less  every  summer,  now  east,  now  west,  some 
times  months  at  a  stretch.  At  16,  17,  and  so  on,  was  fond  of  de 
bating  societies,  and  had  an  active  membership  with  them,  off  and  on, 
in  Brooklyn  and  one  or  two  country  towns  on  the  island.  A  most 
omnivorous  novel-reader,  these  and  later  years,  devour'd  everything 
I  could  get.  Fond  of  the  theatre,  also,  in  New  York,  went  when 
ever  I  could  —  sometimes  witnessing  fine  performances. 

1836-7,  work'd  as  compositor  in  printing  offices  in  New  York 
city.  Then,  when  little  more  than  1 8,  and  for  a  while  afterwards, 
went  to  teaching  country  schools  down  in  Queens  and  Suffolk 
counties,  Long  Island,  and  "boarded  round."  (This  latter  I  con 
sider  one  of  my  best  experiences  and  deepest  lessons  in  human  nature 
behind  the  scenes  and  in  the  masses.)  In  '39,  '40,  I  started  and 
publish'd  a  weekly  paper  in  my  native  town,  Huntington.  Then 

*  Of  the  Brooklyn  of  that  time  (1830-40)  hardly  anything  remains,  ex 
cept  the  lines  of  the  old  streets.  The  population  was  then  between  ten 
and  twelve  thousand.  For  a  mile  Fulton  street  was  lined  with  magnificent 
elm  trees.  The  character  of  the  place  was  thoroughly  rural.  As  a  sample 
of  comparative  values,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  twenty-five  acres  in  what 
is  now  the  most  costly  part  of  the  city,  bounded  by  Flatbush  and  Fulton 
avenues,  were  then  bought  by  Mr  Parmentier,  a  French  emigre,  for  $4000. 
Who  remembers  the  old  places  as  they  were  ?  Who  remembers  the  old 
citizens  of  that  time?  Among  the  former  were  Smith  &  Wood's,  Coe 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  u 

returning  to  New  York  city  and  Brooklyn,  work'd  on  as  printer  and 
writer,  mostly  prose,  but  an  occasional  shy  at  "poetry." 

MY    PASSION    FOR        Living  in  Brooklyn   or   New    York  city 
FERRIES  from  this  time  forward,  my  life,  then,  and 

still  more  the  following  years,  was  curi 
ously  identified  with  Fulton  ferry,  already  becoming  the  greatest  of 
its  sort  in  the  world  for  general  importance,  volume,  variety,  rapid 
ity,  and  picturesqueness.  Almost  daily,  later,  ('50  to  '60,)  I 
cross'd  on  the  boats,  often  up  in  the  pilot-houses  where  I  could 
get  a  full  sweep,  absorbing  shows,  accompaniments,  surroundings. 
What  oceanic  currents,  eddies,  underneath — the  great  tides  of 
humanity  also,  with  ever-shifting  movements.  Indeed,  I  have 
always  had  a  passion  for  ferries  ;  to  me  they  afford  inimitable, 
streaming,  never-failing,  living  poems.  The  river  and  bay  scenery, 
all  about  New  York  island,  any  time  of  a  fine  day — the  hurrying, 
splashing  sea-tides  —  the  changing  panorama  of  steamers,  all  sizes, 
often  a  string  of  big  ones  outward  bound  to  distant  ports  —  the 
myriads  of  white-sail'd  schooners,  sloops,  skiffs,  and  the  marvel 
lously  beautiful  yachts  —  the  majestic  sound  boats  as  they  rounded 
the  Battery  and  came  along  towards  5,  afternoon,  eastward  bound  — 
the  prospect  off  towards  Staten  Island,  or  down  the  Narrows,  or 
the  other  way  up  the  Hudson  —  what  refreshment  of  spirit  such 
sights  and  experiences  gave  me  years  ago  (and  many  a  time  since.) 
My  old  pilot  friends,  the  Balsirs,  Johnny  Cole,  Ira  Smith,  William 
White,  and  my  young  ferry  friend,  Tom  Gere  —  how  well  I 
remember  them  all. 

BROADWAY  Besides  Fulton  ferry,  off  and  on  for  years, 

SIGHTS  I   knew  and  frequented  Broadway  —  that 

noted  avenue    of  New   York's    crowded 

and  mixed  humanity,  and  of  so  many  notables.  Here  I  saw,  during 
those  times,  Andrew  Jackson,  Webster,  Clay,  Seward,  Martin  Van 
Buren,  filibuster  Walker,  Kossuth,  Fitz  Greene  Halleck,  Bryant,  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  Charles  Dickens,  the  first  Japanese  ambassadors, 
and  lots  of  other  celebrities  of  the  time.  Always  something  novel 

Downing' s,  and  other  public  houses  at  the  ferry,  the  old  Ferry  itself,  Love 
lane,  the  Heights  as  then,  the  Wallabout  with  the  wooden  bridge,  and  the 
road  out  beyond  Fulton  street  to  the  old  toll-gate.  Among  the  latter 
were  the  majestic  and  genial  General  Jeremiah  Johnson,  with  others, 
Gabriel  Furman,  Rev.  E.  M.  Johnson,  Alden  Spooner,  Mr.  Pierrepont, 
Mr.  Joralemon,  Samuel  Willoughby,  Jonathan  Trotter,  George  Hall, 
Cyrus  P.  Smith,  N.  B.  Morse,  John  Dikeman,  Adrian  Hegeman,  William 
Udall,  and  old  Mr.  Durlon,  with  his  military  garden. 


is  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

or  inspiriting ;  yet  mostly  to  me  the  hurrying  and  vast  amplitude  of 
those  never-ending  human  currents.  I  remember  seeing  James  Feni- 
more  Cooper  in  a  court-room  in  Chambers  street,  back  of  the  city 
hall,  where  he  was  carrying  on  a  law  case  —  (I  think  it  was  a 
charge  of  libel  he  had  brought  against  some  one.)  I  also  remember 
seeing  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and  having  a  short  interview  with  him,  (it 
must  have  been  in  1845  or  '6,)  in  his  office,  second  story  of  a 
corner  building,  (Duane  or  Pearl  street.)  He  was  editor  and  owner 
or  part  owner  of  "the  Broadway  Journal."  The  visit  was  about 
a  piece  of  mine  he  had  published.  Poe  was  very  cordial,  in  a  quiet 
way,  appear' d  well  in  person,  dress,  &c.  I  have  a  distinct  and 
pleasing  remembrance  of  his  looks,  voice,  manner  and  matter  ;  very 
kindly  and  human,  but  subdued,  perhaps  a  little  jaded.  For  another 
of  my  reminiscences,  here  on  the  west  side,  just  below  Houston 
street,  I  once  saw  (it  must  have  been  about  1832,  of  a  sharp,  bright 
January  day)  a  bent,  feeble  but  stout-built  very  old  man,  bearded, 
swathed  in  rich  furs,  with  a  great  ermine  cap  on  his  head,  led  and 
assisted,  almost  carried,  down  the  steps  of  his  high  front  stoop  (a 
dozen  friends  and  servants,  emulous,  carefully  holding,  guiding  him) 
and  then  lifted  and  tuck'd  in  a  gorgeous  sleigh,  envelop'd  in  other 
furs,  for  a  ride.  The  sleigh  was  drawn  by  as  fine  a  team  of  horses 
as  I  ever  saw.  (You  needn't  think  all  the  best  animals  are  brought 
up  nowadays  ;  never  was  such  horseflesh  as  fifty  years  ago  on  Long 
Island,  or  south,  or  in  New  York  city  ;  folks  look'd  for  spirit  and 
mettle  in  a  nag,  not  tame  speed  merely.)  Well,  I,  a  boy  of  per 
haps  13  or  14,  stopp'd  and  gazed  long  at  the  spectacle  of  that  fur- 
swathed  old  man,  surrounded  by  friends  and  servants,  and  the  careful 
seating  of  him  in  the  sleigh.  I  remember  the  spirited,  champing 
horses,  the  driver  with  his  whip,  and  a  fellow-driver  by  his  side,  for 
extra  prudence.  The  old  man,  the  subject  of  so  much  attention,  I 
can  almost  see  now.  It  was  John  Jacob  Astor. 

The  years  1846,  '47,  and  there  along,  see  me  still  in  New  York 
city,  working  as  writer  and  printer,  having  my  usual  good  health, 
and  a  good  time  generally. 

OMNIBUS   JAUNTS      One   phase    of  those  days   must    by  no 

AND    DRIVERS  means     go     unrecorded  —  namely,     the 

Broadway  omnibuses,  with  their  drivers. 

The  vehicles  still  (I  write  this  paragraph  in  1881)  give  a  portion 
of  the  character  of  Broadway  —  the  Fifth  avenue,  Madison  avenue, 
and  Twenty-third  street  lines  yet  running.  But  the  flush  days  of 
the  old  Broadway  stages,  characteristic  and  copious,  are  over.  The 
Yellow-birds,  the  Red-birds,  the  original  Broadway,  the  Fourth 
avenue,  the  Knickerbocker,  and  a  dozen  others  of  twenty  or  thirty 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  13 

years  ago,  are  all  gone.  And  the  men  specially  identified  with 
them,  and  giving  vitality  and  meaning  to  them  —  the  drivers  —  a 
strange,  natural,  quick-eyed  and  wondrous  race —  (not  only  Rabelais 
and  Cervantes  would  have  gloated  upon  them,  but  Homer  and  Shaks- 
pere  would)  —  how  well  I  remember  them,  and  must  here  give  a 
word  about  them.  How  many  hours,  forenoons  and  afternoons  — 
how  many  exhilarating  night-times  I  have  had  —  perhaps  June  or 
July,  in  cooler  air  —  riding  the  whole  length  of  Broadway,  listening 
to  some  yarn,  (and  the  most  vivid  yarns  ever  spun,  and  the  rarest 
mimicry)  —  or  perhaps  I  declaiming  some  stormy  passage  from 
Julius  Csesar  or  Richard,  (you  could  roar  as  loudly  as  you  chose  in 
that  heavy,  dense,  uninterrupted  street-bass.)  Yes,  I  knew  all  the 
drivers  then,  Broadway  Jack,  Dressmaker,  Balky  Bill,  George  Storms, 
Old  Elephant,  his  brother  Young  Elephant  (who  came  afterward,) 
Tippy,  Pop  Rice,  Big  Frank,  Yellow  Joe,  Pete  Callahan,  Patsey 
Dee,  and  dozens  more ;  for  there  were  hundreds.  They  had 
immense  qualities,  largely  animal  —  eating,  drinking;  women  — 
great  personal  pride,  in  their  way  —  perhaps  a  few  slouches  here 
and  there,  but  I  should  have  trusted  the  general  run  of  them,  in 
their  simple  good-will  and  honor,  under  all  circumstances.  Not 
only  for  comradeship,  and  sometimes  affection  —  great  studies  1 
found  them  also.  (I  suppose  the  critics  will  laugh  heartily,  but  the 
influence  of  those  Broadway  omnibus  jaunts  and  drivers  and  declama 
tions  and  escapades  undoubtedly  enter*  d  into  the  gestation  of 
"  Leaves  of  Grass.") 

PLAYS    AND  And    certain   actors   and    singers,  had    a 

OPERAS    TOO  good  deal  to  do  with  the  business.     All 

through  these  years,  off  and  on,  I  fre 
quented  the  old  Park,  the  Bowery,  Broadway  and  Chatham-square 
theatres,  and  the  Italian  operas  at  Chambers-street,  Astor-place  or 
the  Battery  —  many  seasons  was  on  the  free  list,  writing  for  papers 
even  as  quite  a  youth.  The  old  Park  theatre  —  what  names, 
reminiscences,  the  words  bring  back  !  Placide,  Clarke,  Mrs.  Ver- 
non,  Fisher,  Clara  F.,  Mrs.  Wood,  Mrs.  Seguin,  Ellen  Tree, 
Hackett,  the  younger  Kean,  Macready,  Mrs.  Richardson,  Rice  — 
singers,  tragedians,  comedians.  What  perfect  acting  !  Henry 
Placide  in  "Napoleon's  Old  Guard"  or  "Grandfather  White- 
head," —  or  "the  Provoked  Husband"  of  Cibber,  with  Fanny 
Kemble  as  Lady  Townley  —  or  Sheridan  Knowles  in  his  own 
"  Virginius " — or  inimitable  Power  in  "Born  to  Good  Luck." 
These,  and  many  more,  the  years  of  youth  and  onward.  Fanny 
Kemble  —  name  to  conjure  up  great  mimic  scenes  withal  —  per 
haps  the  greatest.  I  remember  well  her  rendering  of  Bianca  in 


i4  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

"Fazio,"  and  Marianna  in  "the  Wife."  Nothing  finer  did  ever 
stage  exhibit  —  the  veterans  of  all  nations  said  so,  and  my  boyish 
heart  and  head  felt  it  in  every  minute  cell.  The  lady  was  just 
matured,  strong,  better  than  merely  beautiful,  born  from  the  foot 
lights,  had  had  three  years'  practice  in  London  and  through  the 
British  towns,  and  then  she  came  to  give  America  that  young 
maturity  and  roseate  power  in  all  their  noon,  or  rather  forenoon, 
flush.  It  was  my  good  luck  to  see  her  nearly  every  night  she 
play'd  at  the  old  Park  —  certainly  in  all  her  principal  characters. 

I  heard,  these  years,  well  render'd,  all  the  Italian  and  other 
operas  in  vogue,  "  Sonnambula,' '  "the  Puritans,"  "  Der  Freis- 
chutz,"  "Huguenots,"  "  Fille  d'Regiment,"  "Faust,"  "  Etoile 
du  Nord,"  "Poliuto,"  and  others.  Verdi's  "  Ernani,"  "Rigo- 
letto,"  and  "Trovatore,"  with  Donnizetti's  "Lucia"  or  "  Fa- 
vorita"  or  "  Lucrezia,"  and  Auber's  "  Massaniello,"  or  Rossini's 
"William  Tell"  and  "  Gazza  Ladra,"  were  among  my  special 
enjoyments.  I  heard  Alboni  every  time  she  sang  in  New  York 
and  vicinity  —  also  Grisi,  the  tenor  Mario,  and  the  baritone  Badiali, 
the  finest  in  the  world. 

This  musical  passion  follow' d  my  theatrical  one.  As  a  boy  or 
young  man  I  had  seen,  (reading  them  carefully  the  day  beforehand,) 
quite  all  Shakspere's  acting  dramas,  play'd  wonderfully  well.  Even 
yet  I  cannot  conceive  anything  finer  than  old  Booth  in  "  Richard 
Third,"  or  "Lear,"  (I  don't  know  which  was  best,)  or  lago,  (or 
Pescara,  or  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  to  go  outside  of  Shakspere)  —  or 
Tom  Hamblin  in  "  Macbeth"  — or  old  Clarke,  either  as  the  ghost 
in  "Hamlet,"  or  as  Prospero  in  "the  Tempest,"  with  Mrs. 
Austin  as  Ariel,  and  Peter  Richings  as  Caliban.  Then  other  dramas, 
and  fine  players  in  them,  Forrest  as  Metamora  or  Damon  or  Brutus 
—  John  R.  Scott  as  Tom  Cringle  or  Rolla  —  or  Charlotte  Cush- 
man's  Lady  Gay  Spanker  in  "London  Assurance."  Then  of  some 
years  later,  at  Castle  Garden,  Battery,  I  yet  recall  the  splendid  sea 
sons  of  the  Havana  musical  troupe  under  Maretzek  —  the  fine  band, 
the  cool  sea-breezes,  the  unsurpass'd  vocalism  —  StefFan'one,  Bosio, 
Truffi,  Marini  in  "Marino  Faliero,"  "Don  Pasquale,"  or  "  Fa- 
vorita."  No  better  playing  or  singing  ever  in  New  York.  It  was 
here  too  I  afterward  heard  Jenny  Lind.  (The  Battery — its  past 
associations  —  what  tales  those  old  trees  and  walks  and  sea-walls 
could  tell  I) 

THROUGH    EIGHT      In   1848,  '49,  I  was  occupied  as  editor 

YEARS  of  the    "daily    Eagle"    newspaper,    in 

Brooklyn.      The  latter  year  went  off  on 

a  leisurely  journey  and   working   expedition  (my  brother  Jeff  with 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  15 

me)  through  all  the  middle  States,  and  down  the  Ohio  and  Missis 
sippi  rivers.  Lived  awhile  in  New  Orleans,  and  work'd  there  on 
the  editorial  staff  of  "daily  Crescent"  newspaper.  After  a  time 
plodded  back  northward,  up  the  Mississippi,  and  around  to,  and  by 
way  of  the  great  lakes,  Michigan,  Huron,  and  Erie,  to  Niagara  falls 
and  lower  Canada,  finally  returning  through  central  New  York  and 
down  the  Hudson ;  traveling  altogether  probably  8,000  miles  this 
trip,  to  and  fro.  '51,  '53,  occupied  in  house-building  in  Brooklyn. 
(For  a  little  of  the  first  part  of  that  time  in  printing  a  daily  and 
weekly  paper,  "the  Freeman.")  '55,  lost  my  dear  father  this  year 
by  death.  Commenced  putting  "Leaves  of  Grass"  to  press  for 
good,  at  the  job  printing  office  of  my  friends,  the  brothers  Rome,  in 
Brooklyn,  after  many  MS.  doings  and  undoings — (I  had  great 
trouble  in  leaving  out  the  stock  "poetical"  touches,  but  succeeded 
at  last.)  I  am  now  (1856-' 7)  passing  through  my  37th  year. 

SOURCES    OF  To  sum  up  the  foregoing  from  the  out- 

CHARACTER  —  set  (and,  of  course,  far,   far  more  unre- 

RESULTS — 1860  corded,)  I  estimate  three  leading  sources 

and  formative  stamps  to  my  own  charac 
ter,  now  solidified  for  good  or  bad,  and  its  subsequent  literary  and 
other  outgrowth — the  maternal  nativity-stock  brought  hither  from 
far-away  Netherlands,  for  one,  (doubtless  the  best)  — the  subter 
ranean  tenacity  and  central  bony  structure  (obstinacy,  wilfulness) 
which  I  get  from  my  paternal  English  elements,  for  another  —  and 
the  combination  of  my  Long  Island  birth-spot,  sea-shores,  child 
hood's  scenes,  absorptions,  with  teeming  Brooklyn  and  New  York  — 
with,  I  suppose,  my  experiences  afterward  in  the  secession  outbreak, 
for  the  third. 

For,  in  1862,  startled  by  news  that  my  brother  George,  an  officer 
in  the  5ist  New  York  volunteers,  had  been  seriously  wounded  (first 
Fredericksburg  battle,  December  I3th,)  I  hurriedly  went  down  to 
the  field  of  war  in  Virginia.  But  I  must  go  back  a  little. 

OPENING  OF  THE  News  of  the  attack  on  fort  Sumter  and 
SECESSION  WAR  the  flag  at  Charleston  harbor,  S.  C.,  was 

received  in  New   York  city  late  at  night 

(i3th  April,  1861,)  and  was  immediately  sent  out  in  extras  of  the 
newspapers.  I  had  been  to  the  opera  in  Fourteenth  street  that 
night,  and  after  the  performance  was  walking  down  Broadway 
toward  twelve  o'clock,  on  my  way  to  Brooklyn,  when  I  heard  in 
the  distance  the  loud  cries  of  the  newsboys,  who  came  presently 
tearing  and  yelling  up  the  street,  rushing  from  side  to  side  even 
more  furiously  than  usual,  I  bought  an  extra  and  cross'd  to  the 
3 


16  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Metropolitan  hotel  (Niblo's)  where  the  great  lamps  were  still 
brightly  blazing,  and,  with  a  crowd  of  others,  who  gather' d  im 
promptu,  read  the  news,  which  was  evidently  authentic.  For  the 
benefit  of  some  who  had  no  papers,  one  of  us  read  the  telegram 
aloud,  while  all  listen' d  silently  and  attentively.  No  remark  was 
made  by  any  of  the  crowd,  which  had  increas'd  to  thirty  or  forty, 
but  all  stood  a  minute  or  two,  I  remember,  before  they  dispers'd. 
I  can  almost  see  them  there  now,  under  the  lamps  at  midnight 
again. 

NATIONAL    UPRIS-      I  have  said   somewhere   that   the   three 

ING    AND    VOLUN-     Presidentiads  preceding  1 86 1  show'd  how 

TEERING  the  weakness  and  wickedness    of  rulers 

are  just  as  eligible  here  in  America  under 

republican,  as  in  Europe  under  dynastic  influences.  But  what  can  I 
say  of  that  prompt  and  splendid  wrestling  with  secession  slavery,  the 
arch-enemy  personified,  the  instant  he  unmistakably  show'd  his  face  ? 
The  volcanic  upheaval  of  the  nation,  after  that  firing  on  the  flag  at 
Charleston,  proved  for  certain  something  which  had  been  previously 
in  great  doubt,  and  at  once  substantially  settled  the  question  of  dis 
union.  In  my  judgment  it  will  remain  as  the  grandest  and  most 
encouraging  spectacle  yet  vouchsafed  in  any  age,  old  or  new,  to  polit 
ical  progress  and  democracy.  It  was  not  for  what  came  to  the  sur 
face  merely  —  though  that  was  important  —  but  what  it  indicated 
below,  which  was  of  eternal  importance.  Down  in  the  abysms  of 
New  World  humanity  there  had  form'd  and  harden' d  a  primal  hard- 
pan  of  national  Union  will,  determin'd  and  in  the  majority,  refusing 
to  be  tamper' d  with  or  argued  against,  confronting  all  emergencies, 
and  capable  at  any  time  of  bursting  all  surface  bonds,  and  breaking 
out  like  an  earthquake.  It  is,  indeed,  the  best  lesson  of  the  century, 
or  of  America,  and  it  is  a  mighty  privilege  to  have  been  part  of  it. 
(Two  great  spectacles,  immortal  proofs  of  democracy,  unequall'd  in 
all  the  history  of  the  past,  are  furnish' d  by  the  secession  war — one 
at  the  beginning,  the  other  at  its  close.  Those  are,  the  general, 
voluntary,  arm'd  upheaval,  and  the  peaceful  and  harmonious  dis 
banding  of  the  armies  in  the  summer  of  1865.) 

CONTEMPTUOUS         Even  after  the  bombardment  of  Sumter, 

FEELING  however,  the  gravity  of  the  revolt,  and 

the  power  and  will  of  the  slave  States  for 

a  strong  and  continued  military  resistance  to  national  authority,  were 
not  at  all  realized  at  the  North,  except  by  a  few.  Nine-tenths  of 
the  people  of  the  free  States  look'd  upon  the  rebellion,  as  started  in 
South  Carolina,  from  a  feeling  one-half  of  contempt,  and  the  other 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  17 

half  composed  of  anger  and  incredulity.  It  was  not  thought  it 
would  be  join'd  in  by  Virginia,  North  Carolina,  or  Georgia.  A 
great  and  cautious  national  official  predicted  that  it  would  blow  over 
"in  sixty  days,"  and  folks  generally  believ'd  the  prediction.  I 
remember  talking  about  it  on  a  Fulton  ferry-boat  with  the  Brooklyn 
mayor,  who  said  he  only  "hoped  the  Southern  fire-eaters  would 
commit  some  overt  act  of  resistance,  as  they  would  then  be  at  once 
so  effectually  squelch' d,  we  would  never  hear  of  secession  again  — 
but  he  was  afraid  they  never  would  have  the  pluck  to  really  do  any 
thing."  I  remember,  too,  that  a  couple  of  companies  of  the  Thir 
teenth  Brooklyn,  who  rendezvou'd  at  the  city  armory,  and  started 
thence  as  thirty  days'  men,  were  all  provided  with  pieces  of  rope, 
conspicuously  tied  to  their  musket-barrels,  with  which  to  bring  back 
each  man  a  prisoner  from  the  audacious  South,  to  be  led  in  a  noose, 
on  our  men's  early  and  triumphant  return  ! 

BATTLE    OF    BULL      All  this  sort  of  feeling  was  destin'd  to  be 

RUN,    JULY,    1 86 1  arrested  and  revers'd  by  a  terrible   shock 

—  the  battle  of  first  Bull  Run  —  certainly, 

ts  we  now  know  it,  one  of  the  most  singular  fights  on  record.  (All 
battles,  and  their  results,  are  far  more  matters  of  accident  than  is 
generally  thought  ;  but  this  was  throughout  a  casualty,  a  chance. 
Each  side  supposed  it  had  won,  till  the  last  moment.  One  had,  in 
point  of  fact,  just  the  same  right  to  be  routed  as  the  other.  By  a 
fiction,  or  series  of  fictions,  the  national  forces  at  the  last  moment 
exploded  in  a  panic  and  fled  from  the  field.)  The  defeated  troops 
commenced  pouring  into  Washington  over  the  Long  Bridge  at  day 
light  on  Monday,  zzd  —  day  drizzling  all  through  with  rain.  The 
Saturday  and  Sunday  of  the  battle  (zoth,  2 1st,)  had  been  parch' d 
and  hot  to  an  extreme  —  the  dust,  the  grime  and  smoke,  in  layers, 
sweated  in,  follow' d  by  other  layers  again  sweated  in,  absorb' d  by 
those  excited  souls  —  their  clothes  all  saturated  with  the  clay-powder 
filling  the  air  —  stirr'd  up  everywhere  on  the  dry  roads  and  trodden 
fields  by  the  regiments,  swarming  wagons,  artillery,  &c. —  all  the 
men  with  this  coating  of  murk  and  sweat  and  rain,  now  recoiling 
back,  pouring  over  the  Long  Bridge — a  horrible  march  of  twenty 
miles,  returning  to  Washington  baffled,  humiliated,  panic-struck. 
Where  are  the  vaunts,  and  the  proud  boasts  with  which  you  went 
forth  ?  Where  are  your  banners,  and  your  bands  of  music,  and  your 
ropes  to  bring  back  your  prisoners?  Well,  there  isn't  a  band  play 
ing —  and  there  isn't  a  flag  but  clings  ashamed  and  lank  to  its  staff. 

The  sun  rises,  but  shines  not.  The  men  appear,  at  first  sparsely 
and  shame-faced  enough,  then  thicker,  in  the  streets  of  Washington 
—  appear  in  Pennsylvania  avenue,  and  on  the  steps  and  basement 


18  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

entrances.  They  come  along  in  disorderly  mobs,  some  in  squads, 
stragglers,  companies.  Occasionally,  a  rare  regiment,  in  perfect 
order,  with  its  officers  (some  gaps,  dead,  the  true  braves,)  marching 
in  silence,  with  lowering  faces,  stern,  weary  to  sinking,  all  black  and 
dirty,  but  every  man  with  his  musket,  and  stepping  alive ;  but 
these  are  the  exceptions.  Sidewalks  of  Pennsylvania  avenue, 
Fourteenth  street,  &c.,  crowded,  jamm'd  with  citizens,  darkies, 
clerks,  everybody,  lookers-on ;  women  in  the  windows,  curious 
expressions  from  faces,  as  those  swarms  of  dirt-cover* d  return' d  sol 
diers  there  (will  they  never  end  ?)  move  by  ;  but  nothing  said,  no 
comments ;  (half  our  lookers-on  secesh  of  the  most  venomous  kind 
—  they  say  nothing;  but  the  devil  snickers  in  their  faces.)  During 
the  forenoon  Washington  gets  all  over  motley  with  these  defeated 
soldiers  —  queer-looking  objects,  strange  eyes  and  faces,  drench' d 
(the  steady  rain  drizzles  on  all  day)  and  fearfully  worn,  hungry, 
haggard,  blister'd  in  the  feet.  Good  people  (but  not  over-many  of 
them  either,)  hurry  up  something  for  their  grub.  They  put  wash- 
kettles  on  the  fire,  for  soup,  for  coffee.  They  set  tables  on  the  side 
walks —  wagon-loads  of  bread  are  purchas'd,  swiftly  cut  in  stout 
chunks.  Here  are  two  aged  ladies,  beautiful,  the  first  in  the  city  for 
culture  and  charm,  they  stand  with  store  of  eating  and  drink  at  an 
improvis'd  table  of  rough  plank,  and  give  food,  and  have  the  store 
replenish' d  from  their  house  every  half-hour  all  that  day;  and  there 
in  the  rain  they  stand,  active,  silent,  white-hair' d,  and  give  food, 
though  the  tears  stream  down  their  cheeks,  almost  without  inter 
mission,  the  whole  time.  Amid  the  deep  excitement,  crowds  and 
motion,  and  desperate  eagerness,  it  seems  strange  to  see  many,  very 
many,  of  the  soldiers  sleeping  —  in  the  midst  of  all,  sleeping  sound. 
They  drop  down  anywhere,  on  the  steps  of  houses,  up  close  by  the 
basements  or  fences,  on  the  sidewalk,  aside  on  some  vacant  lot,  and 
deeply  sleep.  A  poor  17  or  18  year  old  boy  lies  there,  on  the 
stoop  of  a  grand  house  ;  he  sleeps  so  calmly,  so  profoundly.  Some 
clutch  their  muskets  firmly  even  in  sleep.  Some  in  squads  ;  com 
rades,  brothers,  close  together  —  and  on  them,  as  they  lay,  sulkily 
drips  the  rain. 

As  afternoon  pass'd,  and  evening  came,  the  streets,  the  bar-rooms, 
knots  everywhere,  listeners,  questioners,  terrible  yarns,  bugaboo, 
mask'd  batteries,  our  regiment  all  cut  up,  &c. —  stories  and  story 
tellers,  windy,  bragging,  vain  centres  of  street-crowds.  Resolution, 
manliness,  seem  to  have  abandon' d  Washington.  The  principal 
hotel,  Willard's,  is  full  of  shoulder-straps  —  thick,  crush' d,  creeping 
with  shoulder-straps.  (I  see  them,  and  must  have  a  word  with  them. 
There  you  are,  shoulder-straps!  —  but  where  are  your  companies? 
where  are  your  men  ?  Incompetents !  never  tell  me  of  chances  of 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  19 

battle,  of  getting  stray'd,  and  the  like.  I  think  this  is  your  work, 
this  retreat,  after  all.  Sneak,  blow,  put  on  airs  there  in  Willard's 
sumptuous  parlors  and  bar-rooms,  or  any  where — no  explanation  shall 
save  you.  Bull  Run  is  your  work  ;  had  you  been  half  or  one-tenth 
worthy  your  men,  this  would  never  have  happen'd.) 

Meantime,  in  Washington,  among  the  great  persons  and  their 
entourage,  a  mixture  of  awful  consternation,  uncertainty,  rage, 
shame,  helplessness,  and  stupefying  disappointment.  The  worst 
is  not  only  imminent,  but  already  here.  In  a  few  hours  —  perhaps 
before  the  next  meal  —  the  secesh  generals,  with  their  victorious 
hordes,  will  be  upon  us.  The  dream  of  humanity,  the  vaunted 
Union  we  thought  so  strong,  so  impregnable  —  lo!  it  seems  already 
smash'd  like  a  china  plate.  One  bitter,  bitter  hour  —  perhaps 
proud  America  will  never  again  know  such  an  hour.  She  must  pack 
and  fly  —  no  time  to  spare.  Those  white  palaces  —  the  dome- 
crown'd  capitol  there  on  the  hill,  so  stately  over  the  trees  —  shall 
they  be  left  —  or  destroy' d  first?  For  it  is  certain  that  the  talk 
among  certain  of  the  magnates  and  officers  and  clerks  and  officials 
everywhere,  for  twenty-four  hours  in  and  around  Washington  after 
Bull  Run,  was  loud  and  undisguised  for  yielding  out  and  out, 
and  substituting  the  southern  rule,  and  Lincoln  promptly  abdicating 
and  departing.  If  the  secesh  officers  and  forces  had  immediately 
follow' d,  and  by  a  bold  Napoleonic  movement  had  enter' d  Wash- 
ington  the  first  day,  (or  even  the  second,)  they  could  have  had  things 
their  own  way,  and  a  powerful  faction  north  to  back  them.  One  of 
our  returning  colonels  express' d  in  public  that  night,  amid  a  swarm  of 
officers  and  gentlemen  in  a  crowded  room,  the  opinion  that  it  was  use 
less  to  fight,  that  the  southerners  had  made  their  title  clear,  and  that 
the  best  course  for  the  national  government  to  pursue  was  to  desist 
from  any  further  attempt  at  stopping  them,  and  admit  them  again  to  the 
lead,  on  the  best  terms  they  were  willing  to  grant.  Not  a  voice  was 
rais'd  against  this  judgment,  amid  that  large  crowd  of  officers  and 
gentlemen.  (The  fact  is,  the  hour  was  one  of  the  three  or  four  of  those 
crises  we  had  then  and  afterward,  during  the  fluctuations  of  four  years, 
when  human  eyes  appear' d  at  least  just  as  likely  to  see  the  last  breath 
of  the  Union  as  to  see  it  continue. ) 

THE  STUPOR  But  the  hour,  the  day,  the  night  pass'd, 

PASSES  —  SOME-  and  whatever  returns,  an  hour,  a  day,  a 

THING  ELSE  night  like  that  can  never  again  return.      The 

BEGINS  President,  recovering  himself,  begins  that 

very  night  —  sternly,  rapidly  sets  about  the 

task  of  reorganizing  his  forces,  and  placing  himself  in  positions  for  future 
and  surer  work.     If  there  were  nothing  else  of  Abraham  Lincoln  for 


20  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

history  to  stamp  him  with,  it  is  enough  to  send  him  with  his  wreath  to 
the  memory  of  all  future  time,  that  he  endured  that  hour,  that  day, 
bitterer  than  gall  —  indeed  a  crucifixion  day_ — that  it  did  not  conquer 
him  —  that  he  unflinchingly  stemmed  it,  and  resolv'd  to  lift  himself  and 
the  Union  out  of  it.  v  • 

Then  the  great  New  York  papers  at  once  appear 'd,  (commencing 
that  evening,  and  following  it  up  the  next  morning,  and  incessantly 
through  many  days  afterwards,)  with  leaders  that  rang  out  over  the 
land  with  the  loudest,  most  reverberating  ring  of  clearest  bugles,  full  of 
encouragement,  hope,  inspiration,  unfaltering  defiance.  Those  magnifi 
cent  editorials!  they  never  flagg'd  for  a  fortnight.  The  "Herald" 
commenced  them  —  I  remember  the  articles  well.  The  "Tribune" 
was  equally  cogent  and  inspiriting  —  and  the  "Times,"  "Evening 
Post,"  and  other  principal  papers,  were  not  a  whit  behind.  They 
came  in  good  time,  for  they  were  needed.  For  in  the  humiliation  of 
Bull  Run,  the  popular  feeling  north,  from  its  extreme  of  supercilious 
ness,  recoil*  d  to  the  depth  of  gloom  and  apprehension. 

(Of  all  the  days  of  the  war,  there  are  two  especially  I  can  never  for 
get.  Those  were  the  day  following  the  news,  in  New  York  and 
Brooklyn,  of  that  first  Bull  Run  defeat,  and  the  day  of  Abraham  Lin 
coln's  death.  I  was  home  in  Brooklyn  on  both  occasions.  The  day 
of  the  murder  we  heard  the  news  very  early  in  the  morning.  Mother 
prepared  breakfast  —  and  other  meals  afterward  —  as  usual;  but  not  a 
mouthful  was  eaten  all  day  by  either  of  us.  We  each  drank  half  a  cup 
of  coffee;  that  was  all.  Little  was  said.  We  got  every  newspaper 
morning  and  evening,  and  the  frequent  extras  of  that  period,  and 
pass'd  them  silently  to  each  other.) 

DOWN  AT  THE  FALMOUTH,  VA.,  opposite  Fredericksburgb, 

FRONT  December  21  r  1862.  —  Begin    my  visits 

among  the  camp  hospitals  in  the  army  of  the 

Potomac.  Spend  a  good  part  of  the  day  in  a  large  brick  mansion  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rappahannock,  used  as  a  hospital  since  the  battle  —  seems 
to  have  received  only  the  worst  cases.  Out  doors,  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
within  ten  yards  of  the  front  of  the  house,  I  notice  a  heap  of  amputated 
feet,  legs,  arms,  hands,  &c.,  a  full  load  for  a  one-horse  cart.  Several 
dead  bodies  lie  near,  each  cover' d  with  its  brown  woolen  blanket.  In 
the  door-yard,  towards  the  river,  are  fresh  graves,  mostly  of  officers,  their 
na  nes  on  pieces  of  barrel-staves  or  broken  boards,  stuck  in  the  dirt. 
(Most  of  these  bodies  were  subsequently  taken  up  and  transported  north 
to  their  friends.)  The  large  mansion  is  quite  crowded  upstairs  and 
down,  everything  impromptu,  no  system,  all  bad  enough,  but  I  have 
no  doubt  the  best  that  can  be  done;  all  the  wounds  pretty  bad,  some 
frightful,  the  men  in  their  old  clothes,  unclean  and  bloody.  Some  of 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  21 

the  wounded  are  rebel  soldiers  and  officers,  prisoners.  One,  a  Mississip- 
pian,  a  captain,  hit  badly  in  leg,  I  talk'd  with  some  time;  he  ask'd  me 
for  papers,  which  I  gave  him.  (I  saw  him  three  months  afterward  in 
Washington,  with  his  leg  amputated,  doing  well.)  I  went  through  the 
rooms,  downstairs  and  up.  Some  of  the  men  were  dying.  I  had 
nothing  to  give  at  that  visit,  but  wrote  a  few  letters  to  folks  home, 
mothers,  &c.  Also  talk'd  to  three  or  four,  who  seem'd  most  suscepti 
ble  to  it,  and  needing  it. 

AFTER  FIRST  December  23  to  jz.  — The  results  of  the 

FREDERICKSBURG         late  battle  are  exhibited  everywhere  about 

here  in  thousands  of  cases,  (hundreds  die 

every  day,)  in  the  camp,  brigade,  and  division  hospitals.  These  are 
merely  tents,  and  sometimes  very  poor  ones,  the  wounded  lying  on  the 
ground,  lucky  if  their  blankets  are  spread  on  layers  of  pine  or  hemlock 
twigs,  or  small  leaves.  No  cots;  seldom  even  a  mattress.  It  is 
pretty  cold.  The  ground  is  frozen  hard,  and  there  is  occasional  snow. 
I  go  around  from  one  case  to  another.  I  do  not  see  that  I  do  much 
good  to  these  wounded  and  dying  ;  but  I  cannot  leave  them.  Once 
in  a  while  some  youngster  holds  on  to  me  convulsively,  and  I  do  what 
I  can  for  him  ;  at  any  rate,  stop  with  him  and  sit  near  him  for  hours, 
if  he  wishes  it. 

Besides  the  hospitals,  I  also  go  occasionally  on  long  tours  through 
the  camps,  talking  with  the  men,  &c.  Sometimes  at  night  among  the 
groups  around  the  fires,  in  their  shebang  enclosures  of  bushes.  These 
are  curious  shows,  full  of  characters  and  groups.  I  soon  get  ac 
quainted  anywhere  in  camp,  with  officers  or  men,  and  am  always 
well  used.  Sometimes  I  go  down  on  picket  with  the  regiments  I 
know  best.  As  to  rations,  the  army  here  at  present  seems  to  be 
tolerably  well  supplied,  and  the  men  have  enough,  such  as  it  is, 
mainly  salt  pork  and  hard  tack.  Most  of  the  regiments  lodge  in  the 
flimsy  little  shelter-tents.  A  few  have  built  themselves  huts  of  logs 
and  mud,  with  fire-places. 

BACK    TO  January,  '6j. —  Left  camp  at  Falmouth, 

WASHINGTON  with  some  wounded,    a    few  days  since, 

and  came  here  by  Aquia  creek    railroad, 

and  so  on  goverment  steamer  up  the  Potomac.  Many  wounded  were 
with  us  on  the  cars  and  boat.  The  cars  were  just  common  platform 
ones.  The  railroad  journey  of  ten  or  twelve  miles  was  made  mostly 
before  sunrise.  The  soldiers  guarding  the  road  came  out  from  their 
tents  or  shebangs  of  bushes  with  rumpled  hair  and  half-awake  look. 
Those  on  duty  were  walking  their  posts,  some  on  banks  over  us, 
others  down  far  below  the  level  of  the  track.  I  saw  large  cavalry 


22  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

camps  off  the  road.  At  Aquia  creek  landing  were  numbers  of 
wounded  going  north.  While  I  waited  some  three  hours,  I  went 
around  among  them.  Several  wanted  word  sent  home  to  parents, 
brothers,  wives,  &c.,  which  I  did  for  them,  (by  mail  the  next  day 
from  Washington.)  On  the  boat  I  had  my  hands  full.  One  poor 
fellow  died  going  up. 

I  am  now  remaining  in  and  around  Washington,  daily  visiting  the 
hospitals.  Am  much  in  Patent-office,  Eighth  street,  H  street,  Armory- 
square,  and  others.  Am  now  able  to  do  a  little  good,  having  money, 
(as  almoner  of  others  home,)  and  getting  experience.  To-day, 
Sunday  afternoon  and  till  nine  in  the  evening,  visited  Campbell  hos 
pital  ;  attended  specially  to  one  case  in  ward  I,  very  sick  with  pleurisy 
and  typhoid  fever,  young  man,  farmer's  son,  D.  F.  Russell,  company 
E,  6oth  New  York,  downhearted  and  feeble  ;  a  long  time  before  he 
would  take  any  interest ;  wrote  a  letter  home  to  his  mother,  in 
Malone,  Franklin  county,  N.  Y.,  at  his  request;  gave  him  some 
fruit  and  one  or  two  other  gifts ;  envelop' d  and  directed  his  letter,  &c. 
Then  went  thoroughly  through  ward  6,  observ'd  every  case  in  the 
ward,  without,  I  think,  missing  one  ;  gave  perhaps  from  twenty  to 
thirty  persons,  each  one  some  little  gift,  such  as  oranges,  apples,  sweet 
crackers,  figs,  &c. 

Thursday,  Jan.  21. —  Devoted  the  main  part  of  the  day  to  Armory- 
square  hospital ;  went  pretty  thoroughly  through  wards  F,  G,  H,  and 
I ;  some  fifty  cases  in  each  ward.  In  ward  F  supplied  the  men 
throughout  with  writing  paper  and  stamp' d  envelope  each  ;  distributed 
in  small  portions,  to  proper  subjects,  a  large  jar  of  first-rate  preserv'd 
berries,  which  had  been  donated  to  me  by  a  lady  —  her  own  cooking. 
Found  several  cases  I  thought  good  subjects  for  small  sums  of  money, 
which  I  furnish' d.  (The  wounded  men  often  come  up  broke,  and  it 
helps  their  spirits  to  have  even  the  small  sum  I  give  them.)  My 
paper  and  envelopes  all  gone,  but  distributed  a  good  lot  of  amusing 
reading  matter ;  also,  as  I  thought  judicious,  tobacco,  oranges,  apples, 
&c.  Interesting  cases  in  ward  I  ;  Charles  Miller,  bed  1 9,  company 
D,  53d  Pennsylvania,  is  only  16  years  of  age,  very  bright,  courageous 
boy,  left  leg  amputated  below  the  knee  ;  next  bed  to  him,  another 
young  lad  very  sick  ;  gave  each  appropriate  gifts.  In  the  bed  above, 
also,  amputation  of  the  left  leg  ;  gave  him  a  little  jar  of  raspberries  ; 
bed  I ,  this  ward,  gave  a  small  sum  ;  also  to  a  soldier  on  crutches,  sit 
ting  on  his  bed  near.  .  .  (I  am  more  and  more  surprised  at  the  very 
great  proportion  of  youngsters  from  fifteen  to  twenty-one  in  the  army. 
I  afterwards  found  a  still  greater  proportion  among  the  southerners. ) 

Evening,  same  day,  went  to  see  D.  F.  R.,  before  alluded  to  ; 
found  him  remarkably  changed  for  the  better  ;  up  and  dress' d —  quite 
a  triumph ;  he  afterwards  got  well,  and  went  back  to  his  regiment. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  23 

Distributed  in  the  wards  a  quantity  of  note-paper,  and  forty  or  fifty 
stamp' d  envelopes,  of  which  I  had  recruited  my  stock,  and  the  men 
were  much  in  need. 

FIFTY  HOURS  LEFT  Here  is  a  case  of  a  soldier  I  found  among 
WOUNDED  ON  the  crowded  cots  in  the  Patent-office.  He 

THE  FIELD  likes  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to,   and  we 

will  listen  to  him.      He  got  badly  hit  in 

his  leg  and  side  at  Fredericksburgh  that  eventful  Saturday,  1 3th  of  Decem 
ber.  He  lay  the  succeeding  two  days  and  nights  helpless  on  the  field, 
between  the  city  and  those  grim  terraces  of  batteries  ;  his  company  and 
regiment  had  been  compelPd  to  leave  him  to  his  fate.  To  make 
matters  worse,  it  happen' d  he  lay  with  his  head  slightly  down  hill, 
and  could  not  help  himself.  At  the  end  of  some  fifty  hours  he 
was  brought  off,  with  other  wounded,  under  a  flag  of  truce.  I 
ask  him  how  the  rebels  treated  him  as  he  lay  during  those  two 
days  and  nights  within  reach  of  them  —  whether  they  came  to 
him  —  whether  they  abused  him  ?  He  answers  that  several  of  the 
rebels,  soldiers  and  others,  came  to  him  at  one  time  and  another.  A 
couple  of  them,  who  were  together,  spoke  roughly  and  sarcastically, 
but  nothing  worse.  One  middle-aged  man,  however,  who  seem'd 
to  be  moving  around  the  field,  among  the  dead  and  wounded,  for 
benevolent  purposes,  came  to  him  in  a  way  he  will  never  forget; 
treated  our  soldier  kindly,  bound  up  his  wounds,  cheer' d  him,  gave 
him  a  couple  of  biscuits  and  a  drink  of  whiskey  and  water;  asked  him 
if  he  could  eat  some  beef.  This  good  secesh,  however,  did  not 
change  our  soldier's  position,  for  it  might  have  caused  the  blood  to 
burst  from  the  wounds,  clotted  and  stagnated.  Our  soldier  is  from 
Pennsylvania;  has  had  a  pretty  severe  time;  the  wounds  proved  to  be 
bad  ones.  But  he  retains  a  good  heart,  and  is  at  present  on  the  gain. 
(It  is  not  uncommon  for  the  men  to  remain  on  the  field  this  way,  one, 
two,  or  even  four  or  five  days.) 

HOSPITAL  SCENES  Letter  Writing.  -  When  eligible,  I  en- 
AND  PERSONS  courage  the  men  to  write,  and  myself, 

when  called  upon,  write  all  sorts  of  letters 

for  them  (including  love  letters,  very  tender  ones.)  Almost  as  I  reel 
off  these  memoranda,  I  write  for  a  new  patient  to  his  wife.  M.  de  F., 
of  the  iyth  Connecticut,  company  H,  has  just  come  up  (February  ijth) 
from  Windmill  point,  and  is  received  in  ward  H,  Armory-square.  He  is 
an  intelligent  looking  man,  has  a  foreign  accent,  black-eyed  and  hair'd,  a 
Hebraic  appearance.  Wants  a  telegraphic  message  sent  to  his  wife, 
New  Canaan,  Conn.  I  agree  to  send  the  message  —  but  to  make 
things  sure  I  also  sit  down  and  write  the  wife  a  letter,  and  despatch 


24  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

it  to  the  post-office  immediately,  as  he  fears  she  will  come  on,  and  he 
does  not  wish  her  to,  as  he  will  surely  get  well. 

Saturday  y  January  joth.  —  Afternoon,  visited  Campbell  hospital. 
Scene  of  cleaning  up  the  ward,  and  giving  the  men  all  clean  clothes  — 
through  the  ward  (6)  the  patients  dressing  or  being  dress' d  —  the 
naked  upper  half  of  the  bodies  —  the  good-humor  and  fun  —  the  shirts, 
drawers,  sheets  of  beds,  &c.,  and  the  general  fixing  up  for  Sunday. 
Gave  J.  L.  50  cents. 

Wednesday,  February  flh.  —  Visited  Armory-square  hospital,  went 
pretty  thoroughly  through  wards  E  and  D.  Supplied  paper  and  en 
velopes  to  all  who  wish'd  —  as  usual,  found  plenty  of  men  who  needed 
those  articles.  Wrote  letters.  Saw  and  talk'd  with  two  or  three 
members  of  the  Brooklyn  1 4th  regt.  A  poor  fellow  in  ward  D,  with 
a  fearful  wound  in  a  fearful  condition,  was  having  some  loose  splinters 
of  bone  taken  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  wound.  The  operation 
was  long,  and  one  of  great  pain  —  yet,  after  it  was  well  commenced, 
the  soldier  bore  it  in  silence.  He  sat  up,  propp'd — was  much 
wasted  —  had  lain  a  long  time  quiet  in  one  position  (not  for  days  only 
but  weeks,)  a  bloodless,  brown-skinn'd  face,  with  eyes  full  of  deter 
mination —  belong' d  to  a  New  York  regiment.  There  was  an  unusual 
cluster  of  surgeons,  medical  cadets,  nurses,  &c.,  around  his  bed  —  I 
thought  the  whole  thing  was  done  with  tenderness,  and  done  well. 
In  one  case,  the  wife  sat  by  the  side  of  her  husband,  his  sickness 
typhoid  fever,  pretty  bad.  In  another,  by  the  side  of  her  son,  a 
mother  —  she  told  me  she  had  seven  children,  and  this  was  the 
youngest.  (A  fine,  kind,  healthy,  gentle  mother,  good-looking,  not 
very  old,  with  a  cap  on  her  head,  and  dress' d  like  home  —  what  a 
charm  it  gave  to  the  whole  ward.)  I  liked  the  woman  nurse  in 
ward  E  —  I  noticed  how  she  sat  a  long  time  by  a  poor  fellow  who 
just  had,  that  morning,  in  addition  to  his  other  sickness,  bad  hemorr 
hage —  she  gently  assisted  him,  reliev'd  him  of  the  blood,  holding  a 
cloth  to  his  mouth,  as  he  coughed  it  up  —  he  was  so  weak  he  could 
only  just  turn  his  head  over  on  the  pillow. 

One  young  New  York  man,  with  a  bright,  handsome  face,  had 
been  lying  several  months  from  a  most  disagreeable  wound,  receiv'd 
at  Bull  Run.  A  bullet  had  shot  him  right  through  the  bladder,  hit 
ting  him  front,  low  in  the  belly,  and  coming  out  back.  He  had  suf 
fer' d  much  —  the  water  came  out  of  the  wound,  by  slow  but  steady 
quantities,  for  many  vreeks  —  so  that  he  lay  almost  constantly  in  a 
sort  of  puddle  —  and  there  were  other  disagreeable  circumstances.  He 
was  of  good  heart,  however.  At  present  comparatively  comfortable, 
had  a  bad  throat,  was  delighted  with  a  stick  of  horehound  candy  I 
gave  him,  with  one  or  two  other  trifles. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  25 

PATENT-OFFICE  February  23.  —  I  must  not  let  the  great 

HOSPITAL  hospital    at    the   Patent-office    pass    away 

without  some  mention.      A  few  weeks  ago 

the  vast  area  of  the  second  story  of  that  noblest  of  Washington  buildings 
was  crowded  close  with  rows  of  sick,  badly  wounded  and  dying  soldiers. 
They  were  placed  in  three  very  large  apartments.  I  went  there  many 
times.  It  was  a  strange,  solemn,  and,  with  all  its  features  of  suffering 
and  death,  a  sort  of  fascinating  sight.  I  go  sometimes  at  night  to  soothe 
and  relieve  particular  cases.  Two  of  the  immense  apartments  are  filPd 
with  high  and  ponderous  glass  cases,  crowded  with  models  in  minia 
ture  of  every  kind  of  utensil,  machine  or  invention,  it  ever  en 
ter*  d  into  the  mind  of  man  to  conceive;  and  with  curiosities  and 
foreign  presents.  Between  these  cases  are  lateral  openings,  per 
haps  eight  feet  wide  and  quite  deep,  and  in  these  were  placed 
the  sick,  besides  a  great  long  double  row  of  them  up  and  down 
through  the  middle  of  the  hall.  Many  of  them  were  very  bad  cases, 
wounds  and  amputations.  Then  there  was  a  gallery  running  above 
the  hall  in  which  there  were  beds  also.  It  was,  indeed,  a  curious 
scene,  especially  at  night  when  lit  up.  The  glass  cases,  the  beds,  the 
forms  lying  there,  the  gallery  above,  and  the  marble  pavement  under 
foot  —  the  suffering,  and  the  fortitude  to  bear  it  in  various  degrees — 
occasionally,  from  some,  the  groan  that  could  not  be  repressed  —  some 
times  a  poor  fellow  dying,  with  emaciated  face  and  glassy  eye,  the 
nurse  by  his  side,  the  doctor  also  there,  but  no  friend,  no  relative  — 
such  were  the  sights  but  lately  in  the  Patent-office.  (The  wounded 
have  since  been  removed  from  there,  and  it  is  now  vacant  again.) 

THE  WHITE  HOUSE  February  24*!?.— A  spell  of  fine  soft 
BY  MOONLIGHT  weather.  I  wander  about  a  good  deal, 

sometimes  at  night  under  the  moon.  To 
night  took  a  long  look  at  the  President's  house.  The  white 
portico — the  palace-like,  tall,  round  columns,  spotless  as  snow — 
the  walls  also  —  the  tender  and  soft  moonlight,  flooding  the  pale 
marble,  and  making  peculiar  faint  languishing  shades,  not  shadows  — 
everywhere  a  soft  transparent  hazy,  thin,  blue  moon-lace,  hanging  in 
the  air — the  brilliant  and  extra-plentiful  clusters  of  gas,  on  and  around 
the  fa9ade,  columns,  portico,  &c. —  everything  so  white,  so  marbly 
pure  and  dazzling,  yet  soft  —  the  White  House  of  future  poems,  and  of 
dreams  and  dramas,  there  in  the  soft  and  copious  moon — the  gorgeous 
front,  in  the  trees,  under  the  lustrous  flooding  moon,  full  of  realty,  full 
of  Illusion  —  the  forms  of  the  trees,  leafless,  silent,  in  trunk  and  myriad- 
angles  of  branches,  under  the  stars  and  sky  —  the  White  House  of  the 
land,  and  of  beauty  and  night — sentries  at  the  gates,  and  by  the  portico, 


26  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

silent,  pacing  there  in  blue  overcoats  —  stopping  you  not  at  all,  out 
eyeing  you  with  sharp  eyes,  whichever  way  you  move. 

AN  ARMY  HOSPI-         Let  me  specialize  a  visit  I  made  to  the  col- 

TAL  WARD  lection  of  barrack-like   one-story    edifices, 

Campbell   hospital,    out   on    the    flats,    at 

the  end  of  the  then  horse  railway  route,  on  Seventh  street.  There  is 
a  long  building  appropriated  to  each  ward.  Let  us  go  into  ward  6. 
It  contains,  to-day,  I  should  judge,  eighty  or  a  hundred  patients,  half 
sick,  half  wounded.  The  edifice  is  nothing  but  boards,  well  white 
wash' d  inside,  and  the  usual  slender-framed  iron  bedsteads,  narrow  and 
plain.  You  walk  down  the  central  passage,  with  a  row  on  either  side, 
their  feet  towards  you,  and  their  heads  to  the  wall.  There  are  fires  in 
large  stoves,  and  the  prevailing  white  of  the  walls  is  relieved  by  some 
ornaments,  stars,  circles,  &c.,  made  of  evergreens.  The  view  of  the 
whole  edifice  and  occupants  can  be  taken  at  once,  for  there  is  no  parti 
tion.  You  may  hear  groans  or  other  sounds  of  unendurable  suffering 
from  two  or  three  of  the  cots,  but  in  the  main  there  is  quiet — almost  a 
painful  absence  of  demonstration  ;  but  the  pallid  face,  the  dulPd  eye, 
and  the  moisture  of  the  lip,  are  demonstration  enough.  Most  of  these 
sick  or  hurt  are  evidently  young  fellows  from  the  country,  farmers' 
sons,  and  such  like.  Look  at  the  fine  large  frames,  the  bright  and 
broad  countenances,  and  the  many  yet  lingering  proofs  of  strong  con 
stitution  and  physique.  Look  at  the  patient  and  mute  manner  of  our 
American  wounded  as  they  lie  in  such  a  sad  collection  ;  representa 
tives  from  all  New  England,  and  from  New  York,  and  New  Jersey, 
and  Pennsylvania —  indeed  from  all  the  States  and  all  the  cities — largely 
from  the  west.  Most  of  them  are  entirely  without  friends  or  acquaint 
ances  here — no  familiar  face,  and  hardly  a  word  of  judicious  sympathy 
or  cheer,  through  their  sometimes  long  and  tedious  sickness,  or  the 
pangs  of  aggravated  wounds. 

A  CONNECTICUT  This  young  man  in  bed  25  is  H.  D.  B. 
CASE  of  the  2jth  Connecticut,  company  B. 

His  folks   live   at   Northford,    near   New 

Haven.  Though  not  more  than  twenty-one,  or  thereabouts,  he  has 
knock' d  much  around  the  world,  on  sea  and  land,  and  has  seen  some 
fighting  on  both.  When  I  first  saw  him  he  was  very  sick,  with  no 
appetite.  He  declined  offers  of  money  —  said  he  did  not  need  any 
thing.  As  I  was  quite  anxious  to  do  something,  he  confess' d  that  he 
had  a  hankering  for  a  good  home-made  rice  pudding  —  thought  he  could 
relish  it  better  than  anything.  At  this  time  his  stomach  was  very/ 
weak.  (The  doctor,  whom  I  consulted,  said  nourishment  would  do 
him  more  good  than  anything  ;  but  things  in  the  hospital,  though  better 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  27 

than  usual,  revolted  him.)  I  soon  procured  B.  his  rice  pudding.  A 
Washington  lady,  (Mrs.  O'C.),  hearing  his  wish,  made  the  pudding 
icrself,  and  I  took  it  up  to  him  the  next  day.  He  subsequently  told 
me  he  lived  upon  it  for  three  or  four  days.  This  B.  is  a  good  sample 
of  the  American  eastern  young  man  —  the  typical  Yankee.  I  took  a 
"ancy  to  him,  and  gave  him  a  nice  pipe  for  a  keepsake.  He  receiv'd 
afterwards  a  box  of  things  from  home,  and  nothing  .would  do  but  I 
must  take  dinner  with  him,  which  I  did,  and  a  very  good  one  it  was. 

TWO  BROOKLYN  Here  in  this  same  ward  are  two  young 
BOYS  men  from  Brooklyn,  members  of  the  5ist 

New  York.  I  had  known  both  the  two 
as  young  lads  at  home,  so  they  seem  near  to  me.  One  of  them,  J. 
L.,  lies  there  with  an  amputated  arm,  the  stump  healing  pretty 
well.  (I  saw  him  lying  on  the  ground  at  Fredericksburgh  last  Decem 
ber,  all  bloody,  just  after  the  arm  was  taken  off.  He  was  very  phleg 
matic  about  it,  munching  away  at  a  cracker  in  the  remaining  hand  — 
made  no  fuss.)  He  will  recover,  and  thinks  and  talks  yet  of  meeting 
Johnny  Rebs. 

A  SECESH   BRAVE  The  grand  soldiers  are  not  comprised  in 

those  of  one  side,  any  more  than  the  other. 
Here  is  a  sample  of  an  unknown  southerner,  a  lad  of  seventeen.  At  the 
War  department,  a  few  days  ago,  I  witness' d  a  presentation  of  captured 
flags  to  the  Secretary.  Among  others  a  soldier  named  Gant,  of  the  iO4th 
Ohio  volunteers,  presented  a  rebel  battle-flag,  which  one  of  the  officers 
stated  to  me  was  borne  to  the  mouth  of  our  cannon  and  planted  there 
by  a  boy  but  seventeen  years  of  age,  who  actually  endeavor' d  to  stop  the 
muzzle  of  the  gun  with  fence-rails.  He  was  kilPd  in  the  effort,  and 
the  flag-staff  was  sever' d  by  a  shot  from  one  of  our  men. 

THE    WOUNDED  May  '63. —  As  I  write  this,  the  wounded 

FROM  CHANCEL-  have  begun  to  arrive  from  Hooker's  com- 
LORSVILLE  mand  from  bloody  Chancellorsville.  I  was 

down  among  the  first  arrivals.  The  men 
in  charge  told  me  the  bad  cases  were  yet  to  come.  If  that  is  so  I  pity 
them,  for  these  are  bad  enough.  You  ought  to  see  the  scene  of  the 
wounded  arriving  at  the  landing  here  at  the  foot  of  Sixth  street,  at 
night.  Two  boat  loads  came  about  half-past  seven  last  night.  A  little 
after  eight  it  rain'd  a  long  and  violent  shower.  The  pale,  helpless 
soldiers  had  been  debark' d,  and  lay  around  on  the  wharf  and  neighbor 
hood  anywhere.  The  rain  was,  probably,  grateful  to  them;  at  any 
rate  they  were  exposed  to  it.  The  few  torches  light  up  the  spectacle. 
All  around  —  on  the  wharf,  on  the  ground,  out  on  side  places  —  the 


28  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

men  are  lying  on  blankets,  old  quilts,  &c.,  with  bloody  rags  bound 
round  heads,  arms,  and  legs.  The  attendants  are  few,  and  at  night 
few  outsiders  also  —  only  a  few  hard- work' d  transportation  men  and 
drivers.  (The  wounded  are  getting  to  be  common,  and  people  grow 
callous.)  The  men,  whatever  their  condition,  lie  there,  and  patiently 
wait  till  their  turn  comes  to  be  taken  up.  Near  by,  the  ambulances 
are  now  arriving  in  clusters,  and  one  after  another  is  call'd  to  back  up 
and  take  its  load.  Extreme  cases  are  sent  off  on  stretchers.  The  men 
generally  make  little  or  no  ado,  whatever  their  sufferings.  A  few 
groans  that  cannot  be  suppress' d,  and  occasionally  a  scream  of  pain  as 
they  lift  a  man  into  the  ambulance.  To-day,  as  I  write,  hundreds 
more  are  expected,  and  to-morrow  and  the  next  day  more,  and  so  on 
for  many  days.  Quite  often  they  arrive  at  the  rate  of  1000  a  day. 

A  NIGHT  BATTLE,  May  12.—  There  was  part  of  the  late 
OVER  A  WEEK  battle  at  Chancellorsville,  (second  Freder- 

SINCE  icksburgh,)  a  little  over  a  week  ago,  Satur 

day,    Saturday   night   and   Sunday,    under 

Gen.  Joe  Hooker,  I  would  like  to  give  just  a  glimpse  of — (a  moment's 
look  in  a  terrible  storm  at  sea  —  of  which  a  few  suggestions  are  enough, 
and  full  details  impossible.)  The  fighting  had  been  very  hot  during 
the  day,  and  after  an  intermission  the  latter  part,  was  resumed  at  night, 
and  kept  up  with  furious  energy  till  3  o'clock  in  the  morning.  That 
afternoon  (Saturday)  an  attack  sudden  and  strong  by  Stonewall  Jack 
son  had  gain'd  a  great  advantage  to  the  southern  army,  and  broken  our 
lines,  entering  us  like  a  wedge,  and  leaving  things  in  that  position  at 
dark.  But  Hooker  at  1 1  at  night  made  a  desperate  push,  drove  the 
secesh  forces  back,  restored  his  original  lines,  and  resumed  his  plans. 
This  night  scrimmage  was  very  exciting,  and  afforded  countless  strange 
and  fearful  pictures.  The  fighting  had  been  general  both  at  Chancel 
lorsville  and  northeast  at  Fredericksburgh.  (We  hear  of  some  poor 
fighting,  episodes,  skedaddling  on  our  part.  I  think  not  of  it.  I  think 
of  the  fierce  bravery,  the  general  rule.)  One  corps,  the  6th,  Sedge- 
wick's,  fights  four  dashing  and  bloody  battles  in  thirty-six  hours,  re 
treating  in  great  jeopardy,  losing  largely  but  maintaining  itself,  fighting 
with  the  sternest  desperation  under  all  circumstances,  getting  over  the 
Rappahannock  only  by  the  skin  of  its  teeth,  yet  getting  over.  It  lost 
many,  many  brave  men,  yet  it  took  vengeance,  ample  vengeance. 

But  it  was  the  tug  of  Saturday  evening,  and  through  the  night  and 
Sunday  morning,  I  wanted  to  make  a  special  note  of.  It  was  largely 
in  the  woods,  and  quite  a  general  engagement.  The  night  was  very 
pleasant,  at  times  the  moon  shining  out  full  and  clear,  all  Nature  so 
calm  in  itself,  the  early  summer  grass  so  rich,  and  foliage  of  the  trees 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  29 

yet  there  the  battle  raging,  and  many  good  fellows  lying  helpless, 

with  new  accessions  to  them,  and  every  minute  amid  the  rattle  of 
muskets  and  crash  of  cannon,  (for  there  was  an  artillery  contest  too,) 
the  red  life-blood  oozing  out  from  heads  or  trunks  or  limbs  upon  that 
green  and  dew-cool  grass.  Patches  of  the  woods  take  fire,  and  several 
of  the  wounded,  unable  to  move,  are  consumed — quite  large  spaces  are 
swept  over,  burning  the  dead  also — some  of  the  men  have  their  hair 
and  beards  singed  —  some,  burns  on  their  faces  and  hands — others 
holes  burnt  in  their  clothing.  The  flashes  of  fire  from  the  cannon,  the 
quick  flaring  flames  and  smoke,  and  the  immense  roar — the  musketry 
so  general,  the  light  nearly  bright  enough  for  each  side  to  see  the  other 

—  the  crashing,  tramping  of  men  —  the  yelling  —  close  quarters  —  we 
hear  the  secesh  yells  —  bur  men  cheer  loudly  back,  especially  if  Hooker 
is  in  sight  —  hand  to  hand  conflicts,  each  side  stands  up  to  it,   brave, 
determin'd  as  demons,   they  often  charge  upon  us  —  a  thousand  deeds 
are  done  worth  to  write  newer  greater  poems  on  —  and  still  the  woods 
on    fire  —  still  many  are  not  only    *>«rch'd  —  too  many,  unable    to 
move,  are  burned  to  death. 

Then  the  camps  of  the  wounded  —  O  heavens,  what  scene  is  this  ? 

—  is   this  indeed  humanity  —  these   butchers'    shambles  ?     There   are 
several  of  them.      There  they  lie,  in  the  largest,  in  an  open  space  in 
the  woods,  from  200  to  300  poor  fellows  —  the  groans  and  screams — 
the  odor  of  blood,  mixed  with  the  fresh  scent  of  the  night,  the  grass, 
the  trees  —  that   slaughter-house  !     O  well  is  it  their  mothers,  their 
sisters  cannot  see  them  —  cannot  conceive,   and  never  conceiv'd,  these 
things.      One  man  is  shot  by  a  shell,  both  in  the  arm  and  leg  —  both 
are  amputated  —  there  lie  the  rejected  members.      Some  have  their  legs 
blown  off — some    bullets    through    the   breast  —  some    indescribably 
horrid  wounds    in    the  face  or  head,  all  mutilated,  sickening,    torn, 
gouged  out  —  some  in  the  abdomen  —  some  mere  boys  —  many  rebels, 
badly  hurt  —  they  take  their  regular  turns  with  the  rest,  just  the  same 
as  any  —  the  surgeons  use  them  just  the  same.      Such  is  the  camp  of 
the  wounded  —  such  a  fragment,  a  reflection  afar  off"  of  the  bloody  scene 

—  while  all  over  the  clear,   large  moon  comes  out  at    times    softly, 
quietly  shining.      Amid  the  woods,   that  scene  of  flitting  souls  —  amid 
the  crack  and  crash  and  yelling  sounds  —  the  impalpable  perfume  of 
the  woods  —  and  yet  the  pungent,  stifling  smoke  —  the  radiance  of  the 
moon,  looking  from  heaven  at  intervals  so  placid  —  the  sky  so  heavenly 

—  the  clear-obscure  up  there,   those    buoyant  upper    oceans  —  a    few 
large  placid  stars  beyond,   coming  silently  and  languidly  out,   and  then 
disappearing  —  the  melancholy,   draperied  night  above,  around.      And 
there,  upon  the  roads,  the  fields,  and  in  those  woods,  that   contest, 
never  one  more  desperate  in  any  age  or  land  —  both  parties  now  in 


30  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

force  —  masses  —  no  fancy  battle,  no  semi-play,  but  fierce  and  savage 
demons  fighting  there  —  courage  and  scorn  of  death  the  rule,  excep 
tions  almost  none. 

What  ^history,  I  say,  can  ever  give—  for  who  can  know  —  the  mad, 
determin'd  tussle  of  the  armies,  in  all  their  separate  large  and  little 
squads  —  as  this  —  each  steep' d  from  crown  to  toe  in  desperate,  mortal 
purports  ?  Who  know  the  conflict,  hand-to-hand  —  the  many  conflicts 

in  the  dark,  those  shadowy-tangled,  flashing  moonbeam' d  woods the 

writhing  groups  and  squads  —  the  cries,  the  din,  the  cracking  guns  and 
pistols  —  the  distant  cannon  —  the  cheers  and  calls  and  threats  and 
awful  music  of  the  oaths  —  the  indescribable  mix  —  the  officers'  orders, 
persuasions,  encouragements  —  the  devils  fully  rous'd  in  human  hearts 

—  the  strong  shout,    Charge,  men,  charge  —  the  flash    of  the   naked 
sword,  and  rolling  flame  and  smoke  ?     And  still  the  broken,   clear  and 
clouded  heaven  —  and  still  again  the  moonlight  pouring  silvery  soft  its 
radiant  patches  over  all.      Who  paint  the  scene,  the  sudden    partial 
panic  of  the  afternoon,  at  dusk  ?     Who  paint  the  irrepressible  advance 
of  the  second  division  of  the  Third  corps,  under  Hooker  himself,  sud 
denly  order' d  up  —  those   rapid-filing   phantoms  through   the  woods? 
Who  show  what  moves  there  in  the  shadows,  fluid  and  firm  —  to  save, 
(and  it  did  save,)   the  army's  name,  perhaps  the  nation  ?    as  there  the 
veterans  hold  the  field.      (Brave  Berry  falls  not  yet — but  death  has 
mark'd  him  —  soon  he  falls.) 

UNNAMED  RE-  Of  scenes  like  these,   I  say,  who  writes  — 

MAINS  THE  whoe'er  can  write  the  story  ?     Of  many 

BRAVEST  SOLDIER       a  score  —  aye,  thousands,  north  and  south, 

of  unwrit  heroes,  unknown  heroisms,  in 
credible,  impromptu,  first-class  desperations  —  who  tells  ?  No  history 
ever  —  no  poem  sings,  no  music  sounds,  those  bravest  men  of  all  — 
those  deeds.  No  formal  general's  report,  nor  book  in  the  library,  nor 
column  in  the  paper,  embalms  the  bravest,  north  or  south,  east  or 
west.  Unnamed,  unknown,  remain,  and  still  remain,  the  bravest 
soldiers.  Our  manliest  —  our  boys  —  our  hardy  darlings  ;  no  picture 
gives  them.  Likely,  the  typic  one  of  them  (standing,  no  doubt,  for  hun 
dreds,  thousands,)  crawls  aside  to  some  bush-clump,  or  ferny  tuft,  on 
receiving  his  death-shot  —  there  sheltering  a  little  while,  soaking  roots, 
grass  and  soil,  with  red  blood  —  the  battle  advances,  retreats,  flits 
from  the  scene,  sweeps  by —  and  there,  haply  with  pain  and  suffering 
(yet  less,  far  less,  than  is  supposed, )  the  last  lethargy  winds  like  a  ser 
pent  round  him  —  the  eyes  glaze  in  death  —  none  recks  —  perhaps  the 
burial-squads,  in  truce,  a  week  afterwards,  search  not  the  secluded  spot 

—  and  there,  at  last,  the  Bravest  Soldier  crumbles  in  mother  earth,  un- 
buried  and  unknown. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  31 

SOME  SPECIMEN  June  i8th.—  In    one  of   the  hospitals  I 

CASES  find  Thomas   Haley,   company   M,    4th 

New  York  cavalry  —  a  regular  Irish  boy, 

a  fine  specimen  of  youthful  physical  manliness  —  shot  through  the  lungs 
—  inevitably  dying  —  came  over  to  this  country  from  Ireland  to  en 
list  —  has  not  a  single  friend  or  acquaintance  here  —  is  sleeping 
soundly  at  this  moment,  (but  it  is  the  sleep  of  death) —  has  a 
bullet-hole  straight  through  the  lung.  I  saw  Tom  when  first  brought 
here,  three  days  since,  and  didn't  suppose  he  could  live  twelve  hours  — 
(yet  he  looks  well  enough  in  the  face  to  a  casual  observer.)  He  lies 
there  with  his  frame  exposed  above  the  waist,  all  naked,  for  coolness,  a 
fine  built  man,  the  tan  not  yet  bleach' d  from  his  cheeks  and  neck.  It 
is  useless  to  talk  to  him,  as  with  his  sad  hurt,  and  the  stimulants  they 
give  him,  and  the  utter  strangeness  of  every  object,  face,  furniture,  &c., 
the  poor  fellow,  even  when  awake,  is  like  some  frighten' d,  shy  animal. 
Much  of  the  time  he  sleeps,  or  half  sleeps.  (Sometimes  I  thought  he 
knew  more  than  he  show'd.)  I  often  come  and  sit  by  him  in  perfect 
silence;  he  will  breathe  for  ten  minutes  as  softly  and  evenly  as  a  young 
babe  asleep.  Poor  youth,  so  handsome,  athletic,  with  profuse  beauti 
ful  shining  hair.  One  time  as  I  sat  looking  at  him  while  he  lay  asleep, 
he  suddenly,  without  the  least  start,  a  waken' d,  open'd  his  eyes,  gave 
me  a  long  steady  look,  turning  his  face  very  slightly  to  gaze  easier  — 
one  long,  clear,  silent  look  —  a  slight  sigh  —  then  turn'd  back  and 
went  into  his  doze  again.  Little  he  knew,  poor  death-stricken  boy, 
the  heart  of  the  stranger  that  hover' d  near. 

W.  H.  E.,  Co.  F,  2nd  N.  J. — His  disease  is  pneumonia.  He 
lay  sick  at  the  wretched  hospital  below  Aquia  creek,  for  seven  or  eight 
days  before  brought  here.  He  was  detail' d  from  his  regiment  to  go 
there  and  help  as  nurse,  but  was  soon  taken  down  himself.  Is  an 
elderly,  sallow-faced,  rather  gaunt,  gray-hair' d  man,  a  widower,  with 
children.  He  express' d  a  great  desire  for  good,  strong  green  tea.  An 
excellent  lady,  Mrs.  W.,  of  Washington,  soon  sent  him  a  package; 
also  a  small  sum  of  money.  The  doctor  said  give  him  the  tea  at 
pleasure;  it  lay  on  the  table  by  his  side,  and  he  used  it  every  day.  He 
slept  a  great  deal;  could  not  talk  much,  as  he  grew  deaf.  Occupied 
bed  15,  ward  I,  Armory.  (The  same  lady  above,  Mrs.  W.,  sent 
the  men  a  large  package  of  tobacco.) 

J.  G.  lies  in  bed  52,  ward  I;  is  of  company  B,  yth  Pennsylvania. 
I  gave  him  a  small  sum  of  money,  some  tobacco,  and  envelopes.  To 
a  man  adjoining  also  gave  twenty-five  cents;  he  flush' d  in  the  face  when  I 
offer' d  it  —  refused  at  first,  but  as  I  found  he  had  not  a  cent,  and  was 
very  fond  of  having  the  daily  papers  to  read,  I  prest  it  on  him.  He 
was  evidently  very  grateful,  but  said  little. 

J.  T.   L.,  of  company  F,  9th  New  Hampshire,  lies  in  bed  37, 
4 


32  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ward  I.  Is  very  fond  of  tobacco.  I  furnish  him  some;  also  with  a 
little  money.  Has  gangrene  of  the  feet;  a  pretty  bad  case;  will  surely 
have  to  lose  three  toes.  Is  a  regular  specimen  of  an  old-fashion' d,  rude, 
hearty,  New  England  countryman,  impressing  me  with  his  likeness 
to  that  celebrated  singed  cat,  who  was  better  than  she  look'd. 

Bed  3,  ward  E,  Armory,  has  a  great  hankering  for  pickles,  some 
thing  pungent.  After  consulting  the  doctor,  I  gave  him  a  small  bottle 
of  horse-radish;  also  some  apples;  also  a  book.  Some  of  the  nurses 
are  excellent.  The  woman-nurse  in  this  ward  I  like  very  much. 
(Mrs.  Wright — a  year  afterwards  I  found  her  in  Mansion  house 
hospital,  Alexandria  —  she  is  a  perfect  nurse. ) 

In  one  bed  a  young  man,  Marcus  Small,  company  K,  7th  Maine  — 
sick  with  dysentery  and  typhoid  fever  —  pretty  critical  case  —  I  talk 
with  him  often  —  he  thinks  he  will  die  —  looks  like  it  indeed.  I 
write  a  letter  for  him  home  to  East  Livermore,  Maine  —  I  let  him  talk 
to  me  a  little,  but  not  much,  advise  him  to  keep  very  quiet  —  do  most 
of  the  talking  myself —  stay  quite  a  while  with  him,  as  he  holds  on  to 
my  hand  —  talk  to  him  in  a  cheering,  but  slow,  low  and  measured 
manner  —  talk  about  his  furlough,  and  going  home  as  soon  as  he  is 
able  to  travel. 

Thomas  Lindly,  1st  Pennsylvania  cavalry,  shot  very  badly  through 
the  foot  —  poor  young  man,  he  suffers  horridly,  has  to  be  constantly 
dosed  with  morphine,  his  face  ashy  and  glazed,  bright  young  eyes  —  I 
give  him  a  large  handsome  apple,  lay  it  in  sight,  tell  him  to  have  it 
roasted  in  the  morning,  as  he  generally  feels  easier  then,  and  can  eat  a 
little  breakfast.  I  write  two  letters  for  him. 

Opposite,  an  old  Quaker  lady  sits  by  the  side  of  her  son,  Amer 
Moore,  2d  U.  S.  artillery  —  shot  in  the  head  two  weeks  since,  very 
low,  quite  rational  —  from  hips  down  paralyzed  —  he  will  surely  die. 
I  speak  a  very  few  words  to  him  every  day  and  evening  —  he  answers 
pleasantly  —  wants  nothing  —  (he  told  me  soon  after  he  carne  about 
his  home  affairs,  his  mother  had  been  an  invalid,  and  he  fear'd  to  let 
her  know  his  condition.)  He  died  soon  after  she  came. 

MY  PREPARA-  In  my  visits  to  the  hospitals  I  found  itwas  in 

TIONS  FOR  VISITS        the  simple  matter  of  personal  presence,  and 

emanating  ordinary  cheer  and  magnetism, 

that  I  succeeded  and  help'd  more  than  by  medical  nursing,  or  delica 
cies,  or  gifts  of  money,  or  anything  else.  During  the  war  I  possess' d 
the  perfection  of  physical  health.  My  habit,  when  practicable,  was  to 
prepare  for  starting  out  on  one  of  those  daily  or  nightly  tours  of  from  a 
couple  to  four  or  five  hours,  by  fortifying  myself  with  previous  rest,  the 
bath,  clean  clothes,  a  good  meal,  and  as  cheerful  an  appearance  as 
possible. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  33 

AMBULANCE  June  25,  Sundown.  —  As  I  sit  writing  this 

PROCESSIONS  paragraph  I  see  a  train  of  about  thirty  huge 

four-horse    wagons,   used   as   ambulances, 

filPd  with  wounded,  passing  up  Fourteenth  street,  on  their  way, 
probably,  to  Columbian,  Carver,  and  Mount  Pleasant  hospitals. 
This  is  the  way  the  men  come  in  now,  seldom  in  small  numbers, 
but  almost  always  in  these  long,  sad  processions.  Through  the  past 
winter,  while  our  army  lay  opposite  Fredericksburg,  the  like  strings 
of  ambulances  were  of  frequent  occurrence  along  Seventh  street, 
passing  slowly  up  from  the  steamboat  wharf,  with  loads  from  Aquia 
creek. 

BAD    WOUNDS —  The   soldiers  are  nearly  all  young   men, 

THE    YOUNG  and   far   more   American    than    is    gener 

ally  supposed  —  I  should  say  nine-tenths 

are  native-born.  Among  the  arrivals  from  Chancellorsville  I  find 
a  large  proportion  of  Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois  men.  As  usual, 
there  are  all  sorts  of  wounds.  Some  of  the  men  fearfully  burnt 
from  the  explosions  of  artillery  caissons.  One  ward  has  a  long 
row  of  officers,  some  with  ugly  hurts.  Yesterday  was  perhaps 
worse  than  usual.  Amputations  are  going  on  —  the  attendants 
are  dressing  wounds.  As  you  pass  by,  you  must  be  on  your  guard 
where  you  look.  I  saw  the  other  day  a  gentlemen,  a  visitor 
apparently  from  curiosity,  in  one  of  the  wards,  stop  and  turn  a 
moment  to  look  at  an  awful  wound  they  were  probing.  He 
turn'd  pale,  and  in  a  moment  more  he  had  fainted  away  and  fallen 
to  the  floor. 

THE    MOST    IN-  June    29.  —  Just    before    sundown    this 

SPIRITING    OF    ALL     evening  a  very  large   cavalry  force  went 

WAR'S    SHOWS  by  — a   fine   sight.      The    men    evidently 

had  seen  service.      First  came  a  mounted 

band  of  sixteen  bugles,  drums  and  cymbals,  playing  wild  martial 
tunes  —  made  my  heart  jump.  Then  the  principal  officers,  then  com 
pany  after  company,  with  their  officers  at  their  heads,  making  of  course 
the  main  part  of  the  cavalcade;  then  a  long  train  of  men  with  led 
horses,  lots  of  mounted  negroes  with  special  horses  —  and  a  long 
string  of  baggage-wagons,  each  drawn  by  four  horses  —  and  then  a 
motley  rear  guard. 

It  was  a  pronouncedly  warlike  and  gay  show;  the  sabres  clank' d, 
the  men  look'd  young  and  healthy  and  strong;  the  electric  tramping 
of  so  many  horses  on  the  hard  road,  and  the  gallant  bearing,  fine  seat, 
and  bright  faced  appearance  of  a  thousand  and  more  handsome  young 
American  men,  were  so  good  to  see.  An  hour  later  another  troop 


34  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

went  by,  smaller  in  numbers,  perhaps  three  hundred  men.  They 
too  look'd  like  serviceable  men,  campaigners  used  to  field  and 
fight. 

July  j.  — This  forenoon,  for  more  than  an  hour,  again  long  strings 
of  cavalry,  several  regiments,  very  fine  men  and  horses,  four  or  five 
abreast.  I  saw  them  in  Fourteenth  street,  coming  in  town  from  north. 
Several  hundred  extra  horses,  some  of  the  mares  with  colts,  trotting 
along.  (Appear' d  to  be  a  number  of  prisoners  too.)  How  inspirit 
ing  always  the  cavalry  regiments.  Our  men  are  generally  well 
mounted,  feel  good,  are  young,  gay  on  the  saddle,  their  blankets  in  a 
roll  behind  them,  their  sabres  clanking  at  their  sides.  This  noise  and 
movement  and  the  tramp  of  many  horses'  hoofs  has  a  curious  effect 
upon  one.  The  bugles  play  —  presently  you  hear  them  afar  off, 
deaden' d,  mix'd  with  other  noises.  Then  just  as  they  had  all  pass'd, 
a  string  of  ambulances  commenc'd  from  the  other  way,  moving  up 
Fourteenth  street  north,  slowly  wending  along,  bearing  a  large  lot  of 
wounded  to  the  hospitals. 

BATTLE  OF  July  4tb. — The  weather  to-day,  upon 

GETTYSBURG  the  whole,  is  very  fine,  warm,  but  from  a 

smart  rain  last  night,  fresh  enough,  and 

no  dust,  which  is  a  great  relief  for  this  city.  I  saw  the  parade  about 
noon,  Pennsylvania  avenue,  from  Fifteenth  street  down  toward  the 
capitol.  There  were  three  regiments  of  infantry,  (I  suppose  the  ones 
doing  patrol  duty  here,)  two  or  three  societies  of  Odd  Fellows,  a  lot 
of  children  in  barouches,  and  a  squad  of  policemen.  (A  useless  im 
position  upon  the  soldiers  —  they  have  work  enough  on  their  backs 
without  piling  the  like  of  this.) 

As  I  went  down  the  Avenue,  saw  a  big  flaring  placard  on  the 
bulletin  board  of  a  newspaper  office,  announcing  "  Glorious  Victory 
for  the  Union  Army  ! ' '  Meade  had  fought  Lee  at  Gettysburg, 
Pennsylvania,  yesterday  and  day  before,  and  repuls'd  him  most 
signally,  taken  3,000  prisoners,  &c.  (I  afterwards  saw  Meade's 
despatch,  very  modest,  and  a  sort  of  order  of  the  day  from  the 
President  himself,  quite  religious,  giving  thanks  to  the  Supreme,  and 
calling  on  the  people  to  do  the  same.) 

I  walk'd  on  to  Armory  hospital  —  took  along  with  me  several 
bottles  of  blackberry  and  cherry  syrup,  good  and  strong,  but  innocent. 
Went  through  several  of  the  wards,  announc'd  to  the  soldiers  the 
news  from  Meade,  and  gave  them  all  a  good  drink  of  the  syrups 
with  ice  water,  quite  refreshing  —  prepar'd  it  all  myself,  and  serv'd 
it  around.  Meanwhile  the  Washington  bells  are  ringing  their  sun 
down  peals  for  Fourth  of  July,  and  the  usual  fusilades  of  boys'  pistols, 
crackers,  and  guns. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  35 

A  CAVALRY  CAMP  I  am  writing  this,  nearly  sundown,  watch 
ing  a  cavalry  company  (acting  Signal  ser 
vice,)  just  come  in  through  a  shower,  making  their  night's  camp  ready  on 
some  broad,  vacant  ground,  a  sort  of  hill,  in  full  view  opposite  my 
window.  There  are  the  men  in  their  yellow-striped  jackets.  All  are  dis 
mounted;  the  freed  horses  stand  with  drooping  heads  and  wet  sides  ;  they 
are  to  be  led  off  presently  in  groups,  to  water.  The  little  wall-tents  and 
shelter  tents  spring  up  quickly.  I  see  the  fires  already  blazing,  and  pots 
and  kettles  over  them.  Some  among  the  men  are  driving  in  tent-poles, 
wielding  their  axes  with  strong,  slow  blows.  I  see  great  huddles  of 
horses,  bundles  of  hay,  groups  of  men  (some  with  unbuckled  sabres  yet 
on  their  sides, )  a  few  officers,  piles  of  wood,  the  flames  of  the  fires, 
saddles,  harness,  &c.  The  smoke  streams  upward,  additional  men  ar 
rive  and  dismount  —  some  drive  in  stakes,  and  tie  their  horses  to  them; 
some  go  with  buckets  for  water,  some  are  chopping  wood,  and  so  on. 

July  6th. — A  steady  rain,  dark  and  thick  and  warm.  A  train  of 
six-mule  wagons  has  just  pass' d  bearing  pontoons,  great  square-end  flat- 
boats,  and  the  heavy  planking  for  overlaying  them.  We  hear  that  the 
Potomac  above  here  is  flooded,  and  are  wondering  whether  Lee  will 
be  able  to  get  back  across  again,  or  whether  Meade  will  indeed  break 
him  to  pieces.  The  cavalry  camp  on  the  hill  is  a  ceaseless  field  of 
observation  for  me.  This  forenoon  there  stand  the  horses,  tether' d 
together,  dripping,  steaming,  chewing  their  hay.  The  men  emerge 
from  their  tents,  dripping  also.  The  fires  are  half  quench' d. 

July  lOtb. — Still  the  camp  opposite — perhaps  fifty  or  sixty  tents. 
Some  of  the  men  are  cleaning  their  sabres  (pleasant  to-day,)  some 
brushing  boots,  some  laying  off,  reading,  writing — some  cooking,  some 
sleeping.  On  long  temporary  cross-sticks  back  of  the  tents  are  cavalry 
accoutrements — blankets  and  overcoats  are  hung  out  to  air — there  are 
the  squads  of  horses  tether' d,  feeding,  continually  stamping  and  whisk 
ing  their  tails  to  keep  off  flies.  I  sit  long  in  my  third  story  window 
and  look  at  the  scene — a  hundred  little  things  going  on — pecu 
liar  objects  connected  with  the  camp  that  could  not  be  described,  any 
one  of  them  justly,  without  much  minute  drawing  and  coloring  in 
words. 

A  NEW   YORK  This  afternoon,  July  zzd,  I  have  spent  a 

SOLDIER  long  time  with  Oscar  F.  Wilber,  company 

G,  1 5  4th  New   York,  low  with   chronic 

diarrhoea,  and  a  bad  wound  also.  He  asked  me  to  read  him  a  chapter 
in  the  New  Testament.  I  complied,  and  ask'd  him  what  I  should  read. 
He  said,  "  Make  your  own  choice."  I  open'd  at  the  close  of  one  01 
the  first  books  of  the  evangelists,  and  read  the  chapters  describing  the  lat 
ter  hours  of  Christ,  and  the  scenes  at  the  crucifixion.  The  poor,  wasted 


36  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

young  man  ask'd  me  to  read  the  following  chapter  also,  how  Christ 
rose  again.  I  read  very  slowly,  for  Oscar  was  feeble.  It  pleased  him 
very  much,  yet  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes.  He  ask'd  me  if  I  enjoy 'd 
religion.  I  said,  "Verhaps  not,  my  dear,  in  the  way  you  mean,  and 
yet,  may-be,  it  is  the  same  thing."  He  said,  "It  is  my  chief  reli 
ance."  He  talk'd  of  death,  and  said  he  did  not  fear  it.  I  said, 
"Why,  Oscar,  don't  you  think  you  will  get  well  ?"  He  said,  "I 
may,  but  it  is  not  probable."  He  spoke  calmly  of  his  condition. 
The  wound  was  very  bad,  it  discharged  much.  Then  the  diarrhoea 
had  prostrated  him,  and  I  felt  that  he  was  even  then  the  same  as 
dying.  He  behaved  very  manly  and  affectionate.  The  kiss  I  gave 
him  as  I  was  about  leaving  he  return' d  fourfold.  He  gave  me  his 
mother's  address,  Mrs.  Sally  D.  Wilber,  Alleghany  post-office,  Cat- 
taraugus  county,  N.  Y.  I  had  several  such  interviews  with  him. 
He  died  a  few  days  after  the  one  just  described. 

HOME-MADE  August  8tb. — To-night,  as  I  was  trying 

MUSIC  to  keep  cool,  sitting  by  a  wounded  soldier 

in  Armory-square,  I  was  attracted  by  some 

pleasant  singing  in  an  adjoining  ward.  As  my  soldier  was  asleep,  I 
left  him,  and  entering  the  ward  where  the  music  was,  I  walk'd  half 
way  down  and  took  a  seat  by  the  cot  of  a  young  Brooklyn  friend, 
S.  R.,  badly  wounded  in  the  hand  at  Chancellorsville,  and  who  has 
suffer' d  much,  but  at  that  moment  in  the  evening  was  wide  awake  and 
comparatively  easy.  He  had  turn'd  over  on  his  left  side  to  get  a  bet 
ter  view  of  the  singers,  but  the  mosquito-curtains  of  the  adjoining  cots 
obstructed  the  sight.  I  stept  round  and  loop'd  them  all  up,  so  that  he 
had  a  clear  show,  and  then  sat  down  again  by  him,  and  look'd  and 
listen' d.  The  principal  singer  was  a  young  lady-nurse  of  one  of  the 
wards,  accompanying  on  a  melodeon,  and  join' d  by  the  lady-nurses  of 
other  wards.  They  sat  there,  making  a  charming  group,  with  their 
handsome,  healthy  faces,  and  standing  up  a  little  behind  them  were 
some  ten  or  fifteen  of  the  convalescent  soldiers,  young  men,  nurses,  &c., 
with  books  in  their  hands,  singing.  Of  course  it  was  not  such  a  per 
formance  as  the  great  soloists  at  the  New  York  opera  house  take  a  hand 
in,  yet  I  am  not  sv.re  but  I  receiv'd  as  much  pleasure  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  sitting  there,  as  I  have  had  from  the  best  Italian  composi 
tions,  express' d  by  world-famous  performers.  The  men  lying  up  and 
down  the  hospital,  in  their  cots,  (some  badly  wounded  —  some  never 
to  rise  thence,)  the  cots  themselves,  with  their  drapery  of  white  cur 
tains,  and  the  shadows  down  the  lower  and  upper  parts  of  the  ward  ; 
then  the  silence  of  the  men,  and  the  attitudes  they  took — the  whole  was 
a  sight  to  look  around  upon  again  and  again.  And  there  sweetly  rose 
those  voices  up  to  the  high,  whitewash' d  wooden  roof,  and  pleasantly 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  37 

the  roof  sent  it  all  back  again.  They  sang  very  well,  mostly  quaint 
old  songs  and  declamatory  hymns,  to  fitting  tunes.  Here,  for  in 
stance  : 

My  days  are  swiftly  gliding  by,  and  I  a  pilgrim  stranger, 
Would  not  detain  them  as  they  fly,  those  hours  of  toil  and  danger  ; 
For  O  we  stand  on  Jordan's  strand,  our  friends  are  passing  over, 
And  just  before,  the  shining  shore  we  may  almost  discover. 

We'll  gird  our  loins  my  brethren  dear,  our  distant  home  discerning, 
Our  absent  Lord  has  left  us  word,  let  every  lamp  be  burning, 
For  O  we  stand  on  Jordan's  strand,  our  friends  are  passing  over, 
And  just  before,  the  shining  shore  we  may  almost  discover. 

ABRAHAM    LIN-  August  I2tb. — I  see  the  President  almost 

COLN  every  day,  as  I  happen  to  live  where  he 

passes  to  or  from  his  lodgings  out  of  town. 

He  never  sleeps  at  the  White  House  during  the  hot  season,  but  has 
quarters  at  a  healthy  location  some  three  miles  north  of  the  city,  the 
Soldiers'  home,  a  United  States  military  establishment.  I  saw  him 
this  morning  about  8^  coming  in  to  business,  riding  on  Vermont 
avenue,  near  L  street.  He  always  has  a  company  of  twenty-five  or 
thirty  cavalry,  with  sabres  drawn  and  held  upright  over  their  shoulders. 
They  say  this  guard  was  against  his  personal  wish,  but  he  let  his  coun 
selors  have  their  way.  The  party  makes  no  great  show  in  uniform  or 
horses.  Mr.  Lincoln  on  the  saddle  generally  rides  a  good-sized,  easy 
going  gray  horse,  is  dress' d  in  plain  black,  somewhat  rusty  and  dusty, 
wears  a  black  stiff  hat,  and  looks  about  as  ordinary  in  attire,  &c.,  as 
the  commonest  man.  A  lieutenant,  with  yellow  straps,  rides  at  his 
left,  and  following  behind,  two  by  two,  come  the  cavalry  men,  in  their 
yellow-striped  jackets.  They  are  generally  going  at  a  slow  trot,  as 
that  is  the  pace  set  them  by  the  one  they  wait  upon.  The  sabres  and 
accoutrements  clank,  and  the  entirely  unornamental  cortege  as  it  trots 
towards  Lafayette  square  arouses  no  sensation,  only  some  curious 
stranger  stops  and  gazes.  I  see  very  plainly  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  dark 
brown  face,  with  the  deep-cut  lines,  the  eyes,  always  to  me  with  a 
deep  latent  sadness  in  the  expression.  We  have  got  so  that  we  ex 
change  bows,  and  very  cordial  ones.  Sometimes  the  President  goes 
and  comes  in  an  open  barouche.  The  cavalry  always  accompany  him, 
with  drawn  sabres.  Often  I  notice  as  he  goes  out  evenings — and 
sometimes  in  the  morning,  when  he  returns  early — he  turns  off  and 
halts  at  the  large  and  handsome  residence  of  the  Secretary  of  War,  on 
K  street,  and  holds  conference  there.  If  in  his  barouche,  I  can  see 
from  my  window  he  does  not  alight,  but  sits  in  his  vehicle,  and  Mr. 
Stanton  comes  out  to  attend  him.  Sometimes  one  of  his  sons,  aboy  often 
or  twelve,  accompanies  him,  riding  at  his  right  on  a  pony.  Earlier  in 


38  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  summer  I  occasionally  saw  the  President  and  his  wife,  toward  the 
latter  part  of  the  afternoon,  out  in  a  barouche,  on  a  pleasure  ride 
through  the  city.  Mrs.  Lincoln  was  dress' d  in  complete  black,  with 
a  long  crape  veil.  The  equipage  is  of  the  plainest  kind,  only  two 
horses,  and  they  nothing  extra.  They  pass'd  me  once  very  close,  and 
I  saw  the  President  in  the  face  fully,  as  they  were  moving  slowly,  and 
his  look,  though  abstracted,  happen' d  to  be  directed  steadily  in  my 
eye.  He  bow'd  and  smiled,  but  far  beneath  his  smile  I  noticed  well 
the  expression  I  have  alluded  to.  None  of  the  artists  or  pictures  has 
caught  the  deep,  though  subtle  and  indirect  expression  of  this  man's 
face.  There  is  something  else  there.  One  of  the  great  portrait 
painters  of  two  or  three  centuries  ago  is  needed. 

HEATED    TERM  There  has  lately  been  much  suffering  here 

from  heat;  we  have  had  it  upon  us  now 

eleven  days.  I  go  around  with  an  umbrella  and  a  fan.  I  saw  two 
cases  of  sun-stroke  yesterday,  one  in  Pennsylvania  avenue,  and  another 
in  Seventh  street.  The  City  railroad  company  loses  some  horses  every 
day.  Yet  Washington  is  having  a  livelier  August,  and  is  probably 
putting  in  a  more  energetic  and  satisfactory  summer,  than  ever  before 
during  its  existence.  There  is  probably  more  human  electricity,  more 
population  to  make  it,  more  business,  more  light-heartedness,  than  ever 
before.  The  armies  that  swiftly  circumambiated  from  Fredericksburgh 
— march' d,  struggled,  fought,  had  out  their  mighty  clinch  and  hurl  at 
Gettysburg — wheel' d,  circumambiated  again,  return' d  to  their  ways, 
touching  us  not,  either  at  their  going  or  coming.  And  Washington 
feels  that  she  has  pass'd  the  worst;  perhaps  feels  that  she  is  henceforth 
mistress.  So  here  she  sits  with  her  surrounding  hills  spotted  with  guns, 
and  is  conscious  of  a  character  and  identity  different  from  what  it  was 
five  or  six  short  weeks  ago,  and  very  considerably  pleasanter  and 
prouder. 

SOLDIERS    AND  Soldiers,  soldiers,  soldiers,  you  meet  every- 

TALKS  where  about  the  city,  often  superb-looking 

men,  though  invalids  dress' d  in  worn  uni 
forms,  and  carrying  canes  or  crutches.  I  often  have  talks  with  them, 
occasionally  quite  long  and  interesting.  One,  for  instance,  will  have 
been  all  through  the  peninsula  under  McClellan  —  narrates  to  me  the 
fights,  the  marches,  the  strange,  quick  changes  of  that  eventful  cam 
paign,  and  gives  glimpses  of  many  things  untold  in  any  official  reports  or 
books  or  journals.  These,  indeed,  are  the  things  that  are  genuine  and 
precious.  The  man  was  there,  has  been  out  two  years,  has  been 
through  a  dozen  fights,  the  superfluous  flesh  of  talking  is  long  work'd 
off  him,  and  he  gives  me  little  but  the  hard  meat  and  sinew,  I  find  it 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  39 

refreshing,  these  hardy,  bright,  intuitive,  American  young  men,  (ex- 
perienc'd  soldiers  with  all  their  youth.)  The  vocal  play  and  signi 
ficance  moves  one  more  than  books.  Then  there  hangs  something 
majestic  about  a  man  who  has  borne  his  part  in  battles,  especially  if  he 
is  very  quiet  regarding  it  when  you  desire  him  to  unbosom.  I  am 
continually  lost  at  the  absence  of  blowing  and  blowers  among  these  old- 
young  American  militaires.  I  have  found  some  man  or  other  who  has 
been  in  every  battle  since  the  war  began,  and  have  talk'd  with  them 
about  each  one  in  every  part  of  the  United  States,  and  many  of  the 
engagements  on  the  rivers  and  harbors  too.  I  find  men  here  from 
every  State  in  the  Union,  without  exception.  (There  are  more 
Southerners,  especially  border  State  men,  in  the  Union  army  than  is 
generally  supposed.*)  I  now  doubt  whether  one  can  get  a  fair  idea 
of  what  this  war  practically  is,  or  what  genuine  America  is,  and  her 
character,  without  some  such  experience  as  this  I  am  having. 

DEATH  OF  A  WIS-  Another  characteristic  scene  of  that  dark 
CONSIN  OFFICER  and  bloody  1863,  from  notes  of  my  visit 

to    Armory-square  hospital,  one   hot    but 

pleasant  summer  day.  In  ward  H  we  approach  the  cot  of  a  young 
lieutenant  of  one  of  the  Wisconsin  regiments.  Tread  the  bare  board 
floor  lightly  here,  for  the  pain  and  panting  of  death  are  in  this  cot.  I 
saw  the  lieutenant  when  he  was  first  brought  here  from  Chancellorsville, 
and  have  been  with  him  occasionally  from  day  to  day  and  night  to 
night.  He  had  been  getting  along  pretty  well  till  night  before  last, 
when  a  sudden  hemorrhage  that  could  not  be  stopt  came  upon  him, 
and  to-day  it  still  continues  at  intervals.  Notice  that  water-pail  by  the 
side  of  the  bed,  with  a  quantity  of  blood  and  bloody  pieces  of  muslin, 
nearly  full  ;  that  tells  the  story.  The  poor  young  man  is  struggling 
painfully  for  breath,  his  great  dark  eyes  with  a  glaze  already  upon 
them,  and  the  choking  faint  but  audible  in  his  throat.  An  attendant 
sits  by  him,  and  will  not  leave  him  till  the  last ;  yet  little  or  nothing 
can  be  done.  He  will  die  here  in  an  hour  or  two,  without  the 
presence  of  kith  or  kin.  Meantime  the  ordinary  chat  and  business  of 


*MR.  GARFiELD(IntbeHouseofT{epresentatives,4prili5,'79.)  "Do 
gentlemen  know  that  (leaving  out  all  the  border  States)  there  were  fifty 
regiments  and  seven  companies  of  white  men  in  our  army  fighting  for  the 
Union  from  the  States  that  went  into  rebellion  ?  Do  they  know  that  from 
the  single  State  of  Kentucky  more  Union  soldiers  fought  under  our  flag 
than  Napoleon  took  into  the  battle  of  Waterloo  ?  more  than  Wellington 
took  with  all  the  allied  armies  against  Napoleon  ?  Do  they  remember  that 
186,000  color' d  men  fought  under  our  n\ag  against  the  rebellion  and  for 
the  Union,  and  that  of  that  number  90,000  were  from  the  States  which 
went  into  rebellion  ? " 


40  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  ward  a  little  way  off  goes  on  indifferently.  Some  of  the  inmates 
are  laughing  and  joking,  others  are  playing  checkers  or  cards,  others 
are  reading,  &c. 

I  have  noticed  through  most  of  the  hospitals  that  as  long  as  there  is 
any  chance  for  a  man,  no  matter  how  bad  he  may  be,  the  surgeon  and 
nurses  work  hard,  sometimes  with  curious  tenacity,  for  his  life,  doing 
everything,  and  keeping  somebody  by  him  to  execute  the  doctor's 
orders,  and  minister  to  him  every  minute  night  and  day.  See  that 
screen  there.  As  you  advance  through  the  dusk  of  early  candle-light, 
a  nurse  will  step  forth  on  tip-toe,  and  silently  but  imperiously  forbid 
you  to  make  any  noise,  or  perhaps  to  come  near  at  all.  Some  soldier's 
life  is  flickering  there,  suspended  between  recovery  and  death.  Per 
haps  at  this  moment  the  exhausted  frame  has  just  fallen  into  a  light  sleep 
that  a  step  might  shake.  You  must  retire.  The  neighboring  patients 
must  move  in  their  stocking  feet.  I  have  been  several  times  struck 
with  such  mark'd  efforts  —  everything  bent  to  save  a  life  from  the  very 
grip  of  the  destroyer.  But  when  that  grip  is  once  firmly  fix'd,  leaving 
no  hope  or  chance  at  all,  the  surgeon  abandons  the  patient.  If  it  is  a 
case  where  stimulus  is  any  relief,  the  nurse  gives  milk-punch  or  brandy, 
or  whatever  is  wanted,  ad  libitum.  There  is  no  fuss  made.  Not  a 
bit  of  sentimentalism  or  whining  have  I  seen  about  a  single  death-bed 
in  hospital  or  on  the  field,  but  generally  impassive  indifference.  All  is 
over,  as  far  as  any  efforts  can  avail ;  it  is  useless  to  expend  emotions  or 
labors.  While  there  is  a  prospect  they  strive  hard  —  at  least  most 
surgeons  do  ;  but  death  certain  and  evident,  they  yield  the  field. 

HOSPITALS  EN-  Aug.,  Sept.,  and  Oct.,  '63.— I  am  in  the 

SEMBLE  habit  of  going  to  all,  and  to  Fairfax  sem 

inary,  Alexandria,  and  over  Long  bridge 

to  the  great  Convalescent  camp.  The  journals  publish  a  regular  di 
rectory  of  them  —  a  long  list.  As  a  specimen  of  almost  any  one  of 
the  larger  of  these  hospitals,  fancy  to  yourself  a  space  of  three  to  twenty 
acres  of  ground,  on  which  are  group* d  ten  or  twelve  very  large 
wooden  barracks,  with,  perhaps,  a  dozen  or  twenty,  and  sometimes 
more  than  that  number,  small  buildings,  capable  altogether  of  accommo 
dating  from  five  hundred  to  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  persons. 
Sometimes  these  wooden  barracks  or  wards,  each  of  them  perhaps  from 
a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long,  are  rang'd  in  a  straight 
row,  evenly  fronting  the  street ;  others  are  plann'd  so  as  to  form  an 
immense  V  ;  and  others  again  are  ranged  around  a ,  hollow  square. 
They  make  altogether  a  huge  cluster,  with  the  additional  tents,  extra 
wards  for  contagious  diseases,  guard-houses,  sutler's  stores,  chaplain's 
house  ;  in  the  middle  will  probably  be  an  edifice  devoted  to  the  offices 
of  the  surgeon  in  charge  and  the  ward  surgeons,  principal  attaches, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  4* 

clerks,  &c.  The  wards  are  either  letter' d  alphabetically,  ward  G, 
ward  K,  or  else  numerically,  i,  2,  3,  &c.  Each  has  its  ward  sur 
geon  and  corps  of  nurses.  Of  course,  there  is,  in  the  aggregate,  quite 
a  muster  of  employes,  and  over  all  the  surgeon  in  charge.  Here  in 
Washington,  when  these  army  hospitals  are  all  filPd,  (as  they  have 
been  already  several  times,)  they  contain  a  population  more  numerous 
in  itself  than  the  whole  of  the  Washington  of  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago. 
Within  sight  of  the  capitol,  as  I  write,  are  some  thirty  or  forty  such 
collections,  at  times  holding  from  fifty  to  seventy  thousand  men. 
Looking  from  any  eminence  and  studying  the  topography  in  my  ram 
bles,  I  use  them  as  landmarks.  Through  the  rich  August  verdure  of 
the  trees,  see  that  white  group  of  buildings  off  yonder  in  the  outskirts  ; 
then  another  cluster  half  a  mile  to  the  left  of  the  first ;  then  another  a 
mile  to  the  right,  and  another  a  mile  beyond,  and  still  another  between 
us  and  the  first.  Indeed,  we  can  hardly  look  in  any  direction  ^but 
these  clusters  are  dotting  the  landscape  and  environs.  That  little 
town,  as  you  might  suppose  it,  off  there  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  is 
indeed  a  town,  but  of  wounds,  sickness,  and  death.  It  is  Finley  hos 
pital,  northeast  of  the  city,  on  Kendall  green,  as  it  used  to  be  call'd. 
That  other  is  Campbell  hospital.  Both  are  large  establishments.  I 
have  known  these  two  alone  to  have  from  two  thousand  to  twenty-five 
hundred  inmates.  Then  there  is  Carver  hospital,  larger  still,  a  wall'd 
and  military  city  regularly  laid  out,  and  guarded  by  squads  of  sentries. 
Again,  off  east,  Lincoln  hospital,  a  still  larger  one  ;  and  half  a  mile 
further  Emory  hospital.  Still  sweeping  the  eye  around  down  the 
river  toward  Alexandria,  we  see,  to  the  right,  the  locality  where  the 
Convalescent  camp  stands,  with  its  five,  eight,  or  sometimes  ten  thou 
sand  inmates.  Even  all  these  are  but  a  portion.  The  Harewood, 
Mount  Pleasant,  Armory-square,  Judiciary  hospitals,  are  some  of  the 
rest,  and  all  large  collections. 

A  SILENT  NIGHT  October  2Otb. —  To-night,  after  leaving  the 
RAMBLE  hospital  at  10  o'clock,  (I  had  been  on 

self-imposed  duty  some  five  hours,   pretty 

closely  confined,)  I  wander' d  a  long  time  around  Washington.  The 
night  was  sweet,  very  clear,  sufficiently  cool,  a  voluptuous  half-moon, 
slightly  golden,  the  space  near  it  of  a  transparent  blue-gray  tinge.  I 
walk'd  up  Pennsylvania  avenue,  and  then  to  Seventh  street,  and  a  long 
while  around  the  Patent-office.  Somehow  it  look'd  rebukefully  strong, 
majestic,  there  in  the  delicate  moonlight.  The  sky,  the  planets,  ^  the 
constellations  all  so  bright,  so  calm,  so  expressively  silent,  so  soothing, 
after  those  hospital  scenes.  I  wander' d  to  and  fro  till  the  moist  moon 
set,  long  after  midnight. 


42  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS. 

SPIRITUAL  CHAR-         Every  now  and  then,  in  hospital  or  camp, 
ACTERS  AMONG  there  are  beings  I  meet  —  specimens  of  un- 

THE  SOLDIERS  worldliness,   disinterestedness,   and  animal 

purity  and  heroism  —  perhaps  some  uncon 
scious  Indianian,  or  from  Ohio  or  Tennessee  —  on  whose  birth  the 
calmness  of  heaven  seems  to  have  descended,  and  whose  gradual  grow 
ing  up,  whatever  the  circumstances  of  work-life  or  change,  or  hardship, 
or  small  or  no  education  that  attended  it,  the  power  of  a  strange 
spiritual  sweetness,  fibre  and  inward  health,  have  also  attended. 
Something  veil'd  and  abstracted  is  often  a  part  of  the  manners  of  these 
beings.  I  have  met  them,  I  say,  not  seldom  in  the  army,  in  camp, 
and  in  the  hospitals.  The  Western  regiments  contain  many  of  them. 
They  are  often  young  men,  obeying  the  events  and  occasions  about 
them,  marching,  soldiering,  fighting,  foraging,  cooking,  working  on 
farms  or  at  some  trade  before  the  war  —  unaware  of  their  own  nature, 
(as  to  that,  who  is  aware  of  his  own  nature  ?)  their  companions  only 
understanding  that  they  are  different  from  the  rest,  more  silent,  "some 
thing  odd  about  them,"  and  apt  to  go  off  and  meditate  and  muse  in 
solitude. 

CATTLE  DROVES  Among  other  sights  are  immense  droves  of 

ABOUT  WASH-  cattle  with  their  drivers,  passing  through  the 

INGTON  streets  of  the  city.      Some  of  the  men  have 

a  way  of  leading  the  cattle  by  a  peculiar 

call,  a  wild,  pensive  hoot,  quite  musical,  prolong' d,  indescribable, 
sounding  something  between  the  cooing  of  a  pigeon  and  the  hoot  of  an 
owl.  I  like  to  stand  and  look  at  the  sight  of  one  of  these  immense 
droves  —  a  little  way  off —  (as  the  dust  is  great. )  There  are  always 
men  on  horseback,  cracking  their  whips  and  shouting  —  the  cattle  low 
—  some  obstinate  ox  or  steer  attempts  to  escape  —  then  a  lively  scene  — 
the  mounted  men,  always  excellent  riders  and  on  good  horses,  dash 
after  the  recusant,  and  wheel  and  turn  —  a  dozen  mounted  drovers, 
their  great  slouch'd,  broad-brim'd  hats,  very  picturesque — another 
dozen  on  foot  —  everybody  cover'd  with  dust — long  goads  in  their 
hands — an  immense  drove  of  perhaps  1000  cattle  —  the  shouting, 
hooting,  movement,  &c. 

HOSPITAL  PER-  To  add  to  other  troubles,  amid  the  confu- 

P  LEX  IT  Y  sion  of  this  great  army  of  sick,  it  is  almost 

impossible  for  a  stranger  to  find  any  friend  or 

relative,  unless  he  has  the  patient's  specific  address  to  start  upon. 
Besides  the  directory  printed  in  the  newspapers  here,  there  are  one 
or  two  general  directories  of  the  hospitals  kept  at  provost's  head- quarters, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  43 

but  they  are  nothing  like  complete ;  they  are  never  up  to  date,  and,  as 
things  are,  with  the  daily  streams  of  coming  and  going  and  changing, 
cannot  be.  I  have  known  cases,  for  instance  such  as  a  farmer  coming 
here  from  northern  New  York  to  find  a  wounded  brother,  faithfully 
hunting  round  for  a  week,  and  then  compell'd  to  leave  and  go  home 
without  getting  any  trace  of  him.  When  he  got  home  he  found 
a  letter  from  the  brother  giving  the  right  address. 

DOWN  AT  THE  CULPEPPER,  VA.,  Feb.  '64.—  Here  I  am 

FRONT  pretty  well  down  toward  the  extreme  front. 

Three  or  four  days  ago   General   S.,  who 

is  now  in  chief  command,  (I  believe  Meade  is  absent,  sick,)  moved  a 
strong  force  southward  from  camp  as  if  intending  business.  They 
went  to  the  Rapidan  ;  there  has  since  been  some  manceuvering  and  a 
little  fighting,  but  nothing  of  consequence.  The  telegraphic  accounts 
given  Monday  morning  last,  make  entirely  too  much  of  it,  I  should 
say.  What  General  S.  intended  we  here  know  not,  but  we  trust  in 
that  competent  commander.  We  were  somewhat  excited,  (but  not  so 
very  much  either,)  on  Sunday,  during  the  day  and  night,  as  orders 
were  sent  out  to  pack  up  and  harness,  and  be  ready  to  evacuate,  to 
fall  back  towards  Washington.  But  I  was  very  sleepy  and  went  to 
bed.  Some  tremendous  shouts  arousing  me  during  the  night,  I  went 
forth  and  found  it  was  from  the  men  above  mention' d,  who  were  re 
turning.  I  talk'd  with  some  of  the  men;  as  usual  I  found  them  full 
of  gayety,  endurance,  and  many  fine  little  outshows,  the  signs  of  the 
most  excellent  good  manliness  of  the  world.  It  was  a  curious  sight  to 
see  those  shadowy  columns  moving  through  the  night.  I  stood  unob- 
serv'd  in  the  darkness  and  watch*  d  them  long.  The  mud  was  very\ 
deep.  The  men  had  their  usual  burdens,  overcoats,  knapsacks,  guns 
and  blankets.  Along  and  along  they  filed  by  me,  with  often  a  laugh, 
a  song,  a  cheerful  word,  but  never  once  a  murmur.  It  may  have 
been  odd,  but  I  never  before  so  realized  the  majesty  and  reality  of  the 
American  people  en  masse.  It  fell  upon  me  like  a  great  awe.  The 
strong  ranks  moved  neither  fast  nor  slow.  They  had  march' d  seven  or 
eight  miles  already  through  the  slipping  unctuous  mud.  The  brave 
First  corps  stopt  here.  The  equally  brave  Third  corps  moved  on  to 
Brandy  station.  The  famous  Brooklyn  I4th  are  here,  guarding  the 
town.  You  see  their  red  legs  actively  moving  everywhere.  Then 
they  have  a  theatre  of  their  own  here.  They  give  musical  perform 
ances,  nearly  everything  done  capitally.  Of  course  the  audience  is  a 
jam.  It  is  good  sport  to  attend  one  of  these  entertainments  of  the 
1 4th.  I  like  to  look  around  at  the  soldiers,  and  the  general  collection 
in  front  of  the  curtain,  more  than  the  scene  on  the  stage. 


44  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

PAYING  THE  One  of  the  things  to  note  here  now  is  the 

BOUNTIES  arrival  of  the  paymaster  with  his   strong 

box,    and    the    payment   of     bounties   to 

veterans  re-enlisting.  Major  H.  is  here  to-day,  with  a  small  moun 
tain  of  greenbacks,  rejoicing  the  hearts  of  the  zd  division  of  the  First 
corps.  In  the  midst  of  a  rickety  shanty,  behind  a  little  table,  sit  the 
major  and  clerk  Eldridge,  with  the  rolls  before  them,  and  much 
moneys.  A  re-enlisted  man  gets  in  cash  about  $200  down,  (and  heavy 
instalments  following,  as  the  pay-days  arrive,  one  after  another.) 
The  show  of  the  men  crowding  around  is  quite  exhilarating  ;  I  like  to 
stand  and  look.  They  feel  elated,  their  pockets  full,  and  the  ensuing 
furlough,  the  visit  home.  It  is  a  scene  of  sparkling  eyes  and  flush' d 
cheeks.  The  soldier  has  many  gloomy  and  harsh  experiences,  and  this 
makes  up  for  some  of  them.  Major  H.  is  order' d  to  pay  first  all  the 
re-enlisted  men  of  the  First  corps  their  bounties  and  back  pay,  and  then 
the  rest.  You  hear  the  peculiar  sound  of  the  rustling  of  the  new  and 
crisp  greenbacks  by  the  hour,  through  the  nimble  fingers  of  the  major 
and  my  friend  clerk  E. 

RUMORS,  CHANGES,    About  the  excitement  of  Sunday,  and  th* 

ETC.  orders  to  be  ready  to  start,  I  have  heard 

since  that  the  said  orders  came  from  some 

cautious  minor  commander,  and  that  the  high  principalities  knew  not 
and  thought  not  of  any  such  move  ;  which  is  likely.  The  rumor  and 
fear  here  intimated  a  long  circuit  by  Lee,  and  flank  attack  on  our  right. 
But  I  cast  my  eyes  at  the  mud,  which  was  then  at  its  deepest  and 
palmiest  condition,  and  retired  composedly  to  rest.  Still  it  is  about 
time  for  Culpepper  to  have  a  change.  Authorities  have  chased  each 
other  here  like  clouds  in  a  stormy  sky.  Before  the  first  Bull  Run  this 
was  the  rendezvous  and  camp  of  instruction  of  the  secession  troops.  I 
am  stopping  at  the  house  of  a  lady  who  has  witness' d  all  the  eventful 
changes  of  the  war,  along  this  route  of  contending  armies.  She  is  a 
widow,  with  a  family  of  young  children,  and  lives  here  with  her  sister 
in  a  large  handsome  house.  A  number  of  army  officers  board  with 
them. 

VIRGINIA  Dilapidated,    fenceless,   and  trodden  with 

war  as  Virginia  is,  wherever  I  move  across 

her  surface,  I  find  myself  rous'd  to  surprise  and  admiration.  What 
capacity  for  products,  improvements,  human  life,  nourishment  and  ex 
pansion.  Everywhere  that  I  have  been  in  the  Old  Dominion,  (the 
subtle  mockery  of  that  title  now!)  such  thoughts  have  fill'd  me.  The 
soil  is  yet  far  above  the  average  of  any  of  the  northern  States.  And 
how  full  of  breadth  the  scenery,  everywhere  distant  mountains,  every- 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  45 

where  convenient  rivers.  Even  yet  prodigal  in  forest  woods,  and 
surely  eligible  for  all  the  fruits,  orchards,  and  flowers.  The  skies  and 
atmosphere  most  luscious,  as  I  feel  certain,  from  more  than  a  year's 
residence  in  the  State,  and  movements  hither  and  yon.  I  should  say 
very  healthy,  as  a  general  thing.  Then  a  rich  and  elastic  quality,  by 
night  and  by  day.  The  sun  rejoices  in  his  strength,  dazzling  and 
burning,  and  yet,  to  me,  never  unpleasantly  weakening.  It  is  not  the 
panting  tropical  heat,  but  invigorates.  The  north  tempers  it.  The 
nights  are  often  unsurpassable.  Last  evening  (Feb.  8,)  I  saw  the 
first  of  the  new  moon,  the  outlined  old  moon  clear  along  with  it ;  the 
sky  and  air  so  clear,  such  transparent  hues  of  color,  it  seem'd  to  me  I 
had  never  really  seen  the  new  moon  before.  It  was  the  thinnest  cut 
crescent  possible.  It  hung  delicate  just  above  the  sulky  shadow  of  the 
Blue  mountains.  Ah,  if  it  might  prove  an  omen  and  good  prophecy 
for  this  unhappy  State. 

SUMMER    OF    1864        I  am  back  again  in  Washington,  on  my 

regular     daily    and    nightly    rounds.       Of 

course  there  are  many  specialties.  Dotting  a  ward  here  and  there  are 
always  cases  of  poor  fellows,  long-suffering  under  obstinate  wounds,  or 
weak  and  dishearten' d  from  typhoid  fever,  or  the  like;  rnark'd  cases, 
needing  special  and  sympathetic  nourishment.  These  I  sit  down  and 
either  talk  to,  or  silently  cheer  them  up.  They  always  like  it  hugely, 
(and  so  do  I.)  Each  case  has  its  peculiarities,  and  needs  some  new 
adaptation.  I  have  learnt  to  thus  conform — learnt  a  good  deal  of  hos 
pital  wisdom.  Some  of  the  poor  young  chaps,  away  from  home  for 
the  first  time  in  their  lives,  hunger  and  thirst  for  affection;  this  is  some 
times  the  only  thing  that  will  reach  their  condition.  The  men  like  to 
have  a  pencil,  and  something  to  write  in.  I  have  given  them  cheap 
pocket-diaries,  and  almanacs  for  1864,  interleav'd  with  blank  paper. 
For  reading  I  generally  have  some  old  pictorial  magazines  or  story 
papers  —  they  are  always  acceptable.  Also  the  morning  or  evening 
papers  of  the  day.  The  best  books  I  do  not  give,  but  lend  to  read 
through  the  wards,  and  then  take  them  to  others,  and  so  on;  they 
are  very  punctual  about  returning  the  books.  In  these  wards,  or 
on  the  field,  as  I  thus  continue  to  go  round,  I  have  come  to  adapt 
myself  to  each  emergency,  after  its  kind  or  call,  however  trivial,  how 
ever  solemn,  every  one  justified  and  made  real  under  its  circumstances 
—not  only  visits  and  cheering  talk  and  little  gifts  —  not  only  washing 
and  dressing  wounds,  (I  have  some  cases  where  the  patient  is  unwilling 
any  one  should  do  this  but  me) — but  passages  from  the  Bible,  ex 
pounding  them,  prayer  at  the  bedside,  explanations  of  doctrine,  &c. 
(I  think  I  see  my  friends  smiling  at  this  confession,  but  I  was  never 
more  in  earnest  in  my  life. )  In  camp  and  everywhere,  I  was  in  the 


46  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

habit  of  reading  or  giving  recitations  to  the  men.  They  were  very 
fond  of  it,  and  liked  declamatory  poetical  pieces.  We  would  gather  in 
a  large  group  by  ourselves,  after  supper,  and  spend  the  time  in  such 
readings,  or  in  talking,  and  occasionally  by  an  amusing  game  called  the 
game  of  twenty  questions. 

A    NEW    ARMY  OR-     It  is  plain  to  me  out  of  the  events  of  the 

GANIZATION    FIT        war,  north  and  south,  and  out  of  all  con- 

FOR    AMERICA  siderations,  that  the  current  military  theory, 

practice,  rules  and  organization,  (adopted 

from  Europe  from  the  feudal  institutes,  with,  of  course,  the  "modern 
improvements,"  largely  from  the  French,)  though  tacitly  follow' d, 
and  believ'd  in  by  the  officers  generally,  are  not  at  all  consonant  with 
the  United  States,  nor  our  people,  nor  our  days.  What  it  will  be  I 
know  not — but  I  know  that  as  entire  an  abnegation  of  the  present 
military  system,  and  the  naval  too,  and  a  building  up  from  radically 
different  root-bases  and  centres  appropriate  to  us,  must  eventually 
result,  as  that  our  political  system  has  resulted  and  become  establish*  d, 
different  from  feudal  Europe,  and  built  up  on  itself  from  original,  peren 
nial,  democratic  premises.  We  have  undoubtedly  in  the  United  States 
the  greatest  military  power — an  exhaustless,  intelligent,  brave  and 
reliable  rank  and  file — in  the  world,  any  land,  perhaps  all  lands.  The 
problem  is  to  organize  this  in  the  manner  fully  appropriate  to  it,  to  the 
principles  of  the  republic,  and  to  get  the  best  service  out  of  it.  In 
the  present  struggle,  as  already  seen  and  reviewed,  probably  three- 
fourths  of  the  losses,  men,  lives,  &c.,  have  been  sheer  superfluity, 
extravagance,  waste. 

DEATH    OF   A  I  wonder  if  I  could  ever  convey  to  another 

HERO  — to  you,  for  instance,  reader  dear  —  the 

tender  and  terrible  realities  of  such  cases, 

(many,  many  happen* d,)  as  the  one  I  am  now  going  to  mention. 
Stewart  C.  Glover,  company  E,  5th  Wisconsin — was  wounded  May 
5,  in  one  of  those  fierce  tussles  of  the  Wilderness — died  May  21 — 
aged  about  20.  He  was  a  small  and  beardless  young  man — a  splen 
did  soldier  —  in  fact  almost  an  ideal  American,  of  his  age.  He  had 
serv'  d  nearly  three  years,  and  would  have  been  entitled  to  his  discharge 
in  a  few  days.  He  was  in  Hancock's  corps.  The  fighting  had  about 
ceas'd  for  the  day,  and  the  general  commanding  the  brigade  rode  by 
and  call'd  for  volunteers  to  bring  in  the  wounded.  Glover  responded 
among  the  first  —  went  out  gayly  —  but  while  in  the  act  of  bearing  in  a 
wounded  sergeant  to  our  lines,  was  shot  in  the  knee  by  a  rebel  sharp 
shooter;  consequence,  amputation  and  death.  He  had  resided  with  his 
father,  John  Glover,  an  aged  and  feeble  man,  in  Batavia,  Genesee 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  47 

county,  N.  Y.,  but  was  at  school  in  Wisconsin,  after  the  war  broke 
out,  and  there  enlisted  —  soon  took  to  soldier-life,  liked  it,  was  very 
manly,  was  belov'd  by  officers  and  comrades.  He  kept  a  little  diary, 
like  so  many  of  the  soldiers.  On  the  day  of  his  death  he  wrote  the 
following  in  it,  to-day  the  doctor  says  I  must  die  —  all  is  over  with  me 

—  ah,  so  young   to  die.      On  another  blank  leaf  he  pencill'd  to  his 
brother,  dear  brother  Thomas,  I  have  been  brave  but  wicked — pray  for 
me. 

HOSPITAL    SCENES       It  is  Sunday  afternoon,  middle  of  summer, 

—  INCIDENTS  hot  and  oppressive,  and  very  silent  through 

the  ward.  I  am  taking  care  of  a  critical 

case,  now  lying  in  a  half  lethargy.  Near  where  I  sit  is  a  suffering 
rebel,  from  the  8th  Louisiana;  his  name  is  Irving.  He  has  been  here  a 
long  time,  badly  wounded,  and  lately  had  his  leg  amputated ;  it  is  not 
doing  very  well.  Right  opposite  me  is  a  sick  soldier-boy,  laid  down 
with  his  clothes  on,  sleeping,  looking  much  wasted,  his  pallid  face  on 
his  arm.  I  see  by  the  yellow  trimming  on  his  jacket  that  he  is  a  cavalry 
boy.  I  step  softly  over  and  find  by  his  card  that  he  is  named  William 
Cone,  of  the  ist  Maine  cavalry,  and  his  folks  live  in  Skowhegan. 

Ice  Cream  Treat.  — One  hot  day  toward  the  middle  of  June,  I  gave 
the  inmates  of  Carver  hospital  a  general  ice  cream  treat,  purchasing 
a  large  quantity,  and,  under  convoy  of  the  doctor  or  head  nurse,  going 
around  personally  through  the  wards  to  see  to  its  distribution. 

An  Incident.  —  In  one  of  the  fights  before  Atlanta,  a  rebel  soldier, 
of  large  size,  evidently  a  young  man,  was  mortally  wounded  top  of  the 
head,  so  that  the  brains  partially  exuded.  He  lived  three  days,  lying 
on  his  back  on  the  spot  where  he  first  dropt.  He  dug  with  his  heel  in 
the  ground  during  that  time  a  hole  big  enough  to  put  in  a  couple  of  or 
dinary  knapsacks.  He  just  lay  there  in  the  open  air,  and  with  little  in 
termission  kept  his  heel  going  night  and  day.  Some  of  our  soldiers  then 
moved  him  to  a  house,  but  he  died  in  a  few  minutes. 

Another.  —  After  the  battles  at  Columbia,  Tennessee,  where  we 
repuls'd  about  a  score  of  vehement  rebel  charges,  they  left  a  great  many 
wounded  on  the  ground,  mostly  within  our  range.  Whenever  any  of 
these  wounded  attempted  to  move  away  by  any  means,  generally  by 
crawlimg  off,  our  men  without  exception  brought  them  down  by  a  bul 
let.  They  let  none  crawl  away,  no  matter  what  his  condition. 

A  YANKEE  SOLDIER     As  I  turn'd  off  the  Avenue  one  cool  Octo 
ber  evening  into  Thirteenth  street,  a  sol 
dier  with  knapsack  and  overcoat  stood  at  the  corner  inquiring  his  way. 
I  found  he  wanted  to  go  part  of  the  road  in  my  direction,  so  we  walk'd 
on  together.      We  soon  fell  into  conversation.      He  was  small  and  not 
5 


48  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

very  young,  and  a  tough  little  fellow,  as  I  judged  in  the  evening  light, 
catching  glimpses  by  the  lamps  we  pass'd.  His  answers  were  short, 
but  clear.  His  name  was  Charles  Carroll;  he  belong' d  to  one  of  the 
Massachusetts  regiments,  and  was  born  in  or  near  Lynn.  His  parents 
were  living,  but  were  very  old.  There  were  four  sons,  and  all  had  enlisted. 
Two  had  died  of  starvation  and  misery  in  the  prison  at  Andersonville, 
and  one  had  been  kilPd  in  the  west.  He  only  was  left.  He  was  now 
going  home,  and  by  the  way  he  talk'd  I  inferr'd  that  his  time  was  nearly 
out.  He  made  great  calculations  on  being  with  his  parents  to  comfort 
them  the  rest  of  their  days. 

UNION  PRISONERS  Michael  Stansbury,  48  years  of  age,  a  sea- 
SOUTH  faring  man,  a  southerner  by  birth  and  rais 

ing,  formerly  captain  of  U.  S.  light  ship 

Long  Shoal,  station' d  at  Long  Shoal  point,  Pamlico  sound  —  though  a 
southerner,  a  firm  Union  man  —  was  captur'd  Feb.  17,  1863,  and 
has  been  nearly  two  years  in  the  Confederate  prisons;  was  at  one  time 
order' d  releas'd  by  Governor  Vance,  but  a  rebel  officer  re-arrested  him; 
then  sent  on  to  Richmond  for  exchange  —  but  instead  of  being  ex 
changed  was  sent  down  (as  a  southern  citizen,  not  a  soldier,)  to  Salis 
bury,  N.  C.,  where  he  remain' d  until  lately,  when  he  escap'd  among 
the  exchang'd  by  assuming  the  name  of  a  dead  soldier,  and  coming  up 
via  Wilmington  with  the  rest.  Was  about  sixteen  months  in  Salisbury. 
Subsequent  to  October,  '64,  there  were  about  1 1,000  Union  prisoners 
in  the  stockade;  about  100  of  them  southern  unionists,  200  U.  S.  de 
serters.  During  the  past  winter  1 500  of  the  prisoners,  to  save  their 
lives,  join'd  the  confederacy,  on  condition  of  being  assign' d  merely  to 
guard  duty.  Out  of  the  11,000  not  more  than  2500  came  out;  500 
of  these  were  pitiable,  helpless  wretches  —  the  rest  were  in  a  condition 
to  travel.  There  were  often  60  dead  bodies  to  be  buried  in  the  morn 
ing;  the  daily  average  would  be  about  40.  The  regular  food  was  a 
meal  of  corn,  the  cob  and  husk  ground  together,  and  sometimes  once  a 
week  a  ration  of  sorghum  molasses.  A  diminutive  ration  of  meat  might 
possibly  come  once  a  month,  not  oftener.  In  the  stockade,  containing 
the  11,000  men,  there  was  a  partial  show  of  tents,  not  enough  for 
2000.  A  large  proportion  of  the  men  lived  in  holes  in  the  ground,  in 
the  utmost  wretchedness.  Some  froze  to  death,  others  had  their  hands 
and  feet  frozen.  The  rebel  guards  would  occasionally,  and  on  the  least 
pretence,  fire  into  the  prison  from  mere  demonism  and  wantonness.  All 
the  horrors  that  can  be  named,  starvation,  lassitude,  filth,  vermin,  de 
spair,  swift  loss  of  self-respect,  idiocy,  insanity,  and  frequent  murder, 
were  there.  Stansbury  has  a  wife  and  child  living  in  Newbern  —  has 
written  to  them  from  here  —  is  in  the  U.  S.  light-house  employ  still  — 
(had  been  home  to  Newbern  to  see  his  family,  and  on  his  return  to  the 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  49 

ship  was  captured  in  his  boat.)  Has  seen  men  brought  there  to  Salis 
bury  as  hearty  as  you  ever  see  in  your  life  —  in  a  few  weeks  completely 
dead  gone,  much  of  it  from  thinking  on  their  condition  —  hope  all  gone. 
Has  himself  a  hard,  sad,  strangely  deaden' d  kind  of  look,  as  of  one 
chill'd  for  years  in  the  cold  and  dark,  where  his  good  manly  nature  had 
no  room  to  exercise  itself. 

DESERTERS  Oct.  24. — Saw  a  large  squad  of  our  own 

deserters    (over    300)    surrounded  with  a 

cordon  of  arm'd  guards,  marching  along  Pennsylvania  avenue.  The 
most  motley  collection  I  ever  saw,  all  sorts  of  rig,  all  sorts  of  hats  and 
caps,  many  fine-looking  young  fellows,  some  of  them  shame-faced, 
some  sickly,  most  of  them  dirty,  shirts  very  dirty  and  long  worn,  &c. 
They  tramp' d  along  without  order,  a  huge  huddling  mass,  not  in 
ranks.  I  saw  some  of  the  spectators  laughing,  but  I  felt  like  anything 
else  but  laughing.  These  deserters  are  far  more  numerous  than  would 
be  thought.  Almost  every  day  I  see  squads  of  them,  sometimes  two 
or  three  at  a  time,  with  a  small  guard  ;  sometimes  ten  or  twelve,  under 
a  larger  one.  (I  hear  that  desertions  from  the  army  now  in  the  field 
have  often  averaged  10,000  a  month.  One  of  the  commonest  sights 
in  Washington  is  a  squad  of  deserters.) 

A  GLIMPSE  In  one  of  the  late  movements  of  our  troops 

OF  WAR'S  in  the  valley,  (near  Upperville,  I  think,) 

HELL-SCENES  a  strong  force  of  Moseby's  mounted  guer 

illas  attack' d  a  train  of  wounded,  and  the 

guard  of  cavalry  convoying  them.  The  ambulances  contain' d  about  60 
wounded,  quite  a  number  of  them  officers  of  rank.  The  rebels  were 
in  strength,  and  the  capture  of  the  train  and  its  partial  guard  after  a 
short  snap  was  effectually  accomplish' d.  No  sooner  had  our  men  sur 
render*  d,  the  rebels  instantly  commenced  robbing  the  train  and  mur 
dering  their  prisoners,  even  the  wounded.  Here  is  the  scene,  or  a 
sample  of  it,  ten  minutes  after.  Among  the  wounded  officers  in  the 
ambulances  were  one,  a  lieutenant  of  regulars,  and  another  of  higher 
rank.  These  two  were  dragg'd  out  on  the  ground  on  their  backs,  and 
were  now  surrounded  by  the  guerillas,  a  demoniac  crowd,  each  mem 
ber  of  which  was  stabbing  them  in  different  parts  of  their  bodies.  One 
of  the  officers  had  his  feet  pinn'd  firmly  to  the  ground  by  bayonets 
stuck  through  them  and  thrust  into  the  ground.  These  two  officers, 
as  afterwards  found  on  examination,  had  receiv'd  about  twenty  such 
thrusts,  some  of  them  through  the  mouth,  face,  &c.  The  wounded 
had  all  been  dragg'd  (to  give  a  better  chance  also  for  plunder,)  out  of 
their  wagons  ;  some  had  been  effectually  dispatch' d,  and  their  bodies 
were  lying  there  lifeless  and  bloody.  Others,  not  yet  dead,  but  hor- 


50  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ribly  mutilated,  were  moaning  or  groaning.  Of  our  men  who  surren 
der' d,  most  had  been  thus  maim'd  or  slaughter' d. 

At  this  instant  a  force  of  our  cavalry,  who  had  been  following  the 
train  at  some  interval,  charged  suddenly  upon  the  secesh  captors,  who 
proceeded  at  once  to  make  the  best  escape  they  could.  Most  of  them  got 
away,  but  we  gobbled  two  officers  and  seventeen  men,  in  the  very  acts 
just  described.  The  sight  was  one  which  admitted  of  little  discussion, 
as  may  be  imagined.  The  seventeen  captur'd  men  and  two  officers 
were  put  under  guard  for  the  night,  but  it  was  decided  there  and  then 
that  they  should  die.  The  next  morning  the  two  officers  were  taken 
in  the  town,  separate  places,  put  in  the  centre  of  the  street,  and  shot. 
The  seventeen  men  were  taken  to  an  open  ground,  a  little  one  side. 
They  were  placed  in  a  hollow  square,  half-en  compass*  d  by  two  of  our 
cavalry  regiments,  one  of  which  regiments  had  three  days  before  found 
the  bloody  corpses  of  three  of  their  men  hamstrung  and  hung  up  by  the 
heels  to  limbs  of  trees  by  Moseby's  guerillas,  and  the  other  had  not 
long  before  had  twelve  men,  after  surrendering,  shot  and  then  hung  by 
the  neck  to  limbs  of  trees,  and  jeering  inscriptions  pinn'd  to  the  breast 
of  one  of  the  corpses,  who  had  been  a  sergeant.  Those  three,  and 
those  twelve,  had  been  found,  I  say,  by  these  environing  regiments. 
Now,  with  revolvers,  they  form'd  the  grim  cordon  of  the  seventeen 
prisoners.  The  latter  were  placed  in  the  midst  of  the  hollow  square, 
unfasten* d,  and  the  ironical  remark  made  to  them  that  they  were  now 
to  be  given  "a  chance  for  themselves."  A  few  ran  for  it.  But  what 
use  ?  From  every  side  the  deadly  pills  came.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
seventeen  corpses  strew*  d  the  hollow  square.  I  was  curious  to  know 
whether  some  of  the  Union  soldiers,  some  few,  (some  one  or  two  at 
least  of  the  youngsters, )  did  not  abstain  from  shooting  on  the  helpless 
men.  Not  one.  There  was  no  exultation,  very  little  said,  almost 
nothing,  yet  every  man  there  contributed  his  shot. 

Multiply  the  above  by  scores,  aye  hundreds — verify  it  in  all  the 
forms  that  different  circumstances,  individuals,  places,  could  afford  — 
light  it  with  every  lurid  passion,  the  wolf's,  the  lion's  lapping  thirst  for 
blood — the  passionate,  boiling  volcanoes  of  human  revenge  for  com 
rades,  brothers  slain — with  the  light  of  burning  farms,  and  heaps  of 
smutting,  smouldering  black  embers — and  in  the  human  heart  every 
where  black,  worse  embers — and  you  have  an  inkling  of  this  war. 

GIFTS  —  MONEY —  As  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  wounded 
DISCRIMINATION  came  up  from  the  front  without  a  cent  of 

money  in  their  pockets,  I  soon  discover' d 

that  it  was  about  the  best  thing  I  could  do  to  raise  their  spirits,  and 
show  them  that  somebody  cared  for  them,  and  practically  felt  a  fatherly 
or  brotherly  interest  in  them,  to  give  them  small  sums  in  such  cases, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  51 

using  tact  and  discretion  about  it.  I  am  regularly  supplied  with  funds 
for  this  purpose  by  good  women  and  men  in  Boston,  Salem,  Provi 
dence,  Brooklyn,  and  New  York.  I  provide  myself  with  a  quantity 
of  bright  new  ten-cent  and  five-cent  bills,  and,  when  I  think  it  incum 
bent,  I  give  25  or  30  cents,  or  perhaps  50  cents,  and  occasionally  a 
still  larger  sum  to  some  particular  case.  As  I  have  started  this  sub 
ject,  I  take  opportunity  to  ventilate  the  financial  question.  My  sup 
plies,  altogether  voluntary,  mostly  confidential,  often  seeming  quite 
Providential,  were  numerous  and  varied.  For  instance,  there  were 
two  distant  and  wealthy  ladies,  sisters,  who  sent  regularly,  for  two 
years,  quite  heavy  sums,  enjoining  that  their  names  should  be  kept 
secret.  The  same  delicacy  was  indeed  a  frequent  condition.  From 
several  I  had  carte  blanche.  Many  were  entire  strangers.  From  these 
sources,  during  from  two  to  three  years,  in  the  manner  described,  in 
the  hospitals,  I  bestowed,  as  almoner  for  others,  many,  many  thousands 
of  dollars.  I  learn' d  one  thing  conclusively  —  that  beneath  all  the 
ostensible  greed  and  heartlessness  of  our  times  there  is  no  end  to  the 
generous  benevolence  of  men  and  women  in  the  United  States,  when 
once  sure  of  their  object.  Another  thing  became  clear  to  me  —  while 
cash  is  not  amiss  to  bring  up  the  rear,  tact  and  magnetic  sympathy  and 
unction  are,  and  ever  will  be,  sovereign  still. 

ITEMS  FROM  MY  Some  of  the  half-eras' d,  and  not  over- 
NOTE  BOOKS  legible  when  made,  memoranda  of  things 

wanted  by  one  patient  or  another,  will  con 
vey  quite  a  fair  idea.  D.  S.  G.,  bed  52,  wants  a  good  book;  has  a 
sore,  weak  throat;  would  like  some  horehound  candy;  is  from  New 
Jersey,  28th  regiment.  C.  H.  L.,  I45th  Pennsylvania,  lies  in  bed  6, 
with  jaundice  and  erysipelas;  also  wounded;  stomach  easily  nauseated; 
bring  him  some  oranges,  also  a  little  tart  jelly;  hearty,  full-blooded 
young  fellow  —  (he  got  better  in  a  few  days,  and  is  now  home  on  a 
furlough.)  J.  H.  G.,  bed  24,  wants  an  undershirt,  drawers,  and 
socks;  has  not  had  a  change  for  quite  a  while;  is  evidently  a  neat, 
clean  boy  from  New  England —  (I  supplied  him;  also  with  a  comb, 
tooth-brush,  and  some  soap  and  towels;  I  noticed  afterward  he  was 
the  cleanest  of  the  whole  ward.)  Mrs.  G.,  lady-nurse,  ward  F, 
wants  a  bottle  of  brandy  —  has  two  patients  imperatively  requiring 
stimulus  —  low  with  wounds  and  exhaustion.  (I  supplied  her  with  a 
bottle  of  first-rate  brandy  from  the  Christian  commission  rooms.) 

A    CASE    FROM  Well,   Poor  John   Mahay   is   dead.      He 

SECOND  BULL  RUN     died  yesterday.      His  was  a  painful   and 

long-lingering  case  (see  p.  24  ante.}  I 
have  been  with  him  at  times  for  the  past  fifteen  months.  He  be- 


52  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

longed  to  company  A,  loist  New  York,  and  was  shot  through  the 
lower  region  of  the  abdomen  at  second  Bull  Run,  August,  '62.  One 
scene  at  his  bedside  will  suffice  for  the  agonies  of  nearly  two  years. 
The  bladder  had  been  perforated  by  a  bullet  going  entirely  through 
him.  Not  long  since  I  sat  a  good  part  of  the  morning  by  his  bedside, 
ward  E,  Armory  square.  The  water  ran  out  of  his  eyes  from  the 
intense  pain,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  were  distorted,  but  he  utter'  d 
nothing  except  a  low  groan  now  and  then.  Hot  moist  cloths  were 
applied,  and  reliev'd  him  somewhat.  Poor  Mahay,  a  mere  boy  in 
age,  but  old  in  misfortune.  He  never  knew  the  love  of  parents,  was 
placed  in  infancy  in  one  of  the  New  York  charitable  institutions,  and 
subsequently  bound  out  to  a  tyrannical  master  in  Sullivan  county,  (the 
scars  of  whose  cowhide  and  club  remain' d  yet  on  his  back.)  His 
wound  here  was  a  most  disagreeable  one,  for  he  was  a  gentle,  cleanly, 
and  affectionate  boy.  He  found  friends  in  his  hospital  life,  and, 
indeed,  was  a  universal  favorite.  He  had  quite  a  funeral  cere 
mony. 

ARMY    SURGEONS        I  must  bear  my  most  emphatic  testimony 

—  AID    DEFI-  to    the  zeal,    manliness,   and    professional 

CIENCIES  spirit   and    capacity,    generally    prevailing 

among  the  surgeons,  many  of  them  young 

men,  in  the  hospitals  and  the  army.  I  will  not  say  much  about  the 
exceptions,  for  they  are  few;  (but  I  have  met  some  of  those  few,  and 
very  incompetent  and  airish  they  were.)  I  never  ceas'd  to  find  the 
best  men,  and  the  hardest  and  most  disinterested  workers,  among  the 
surgeons  in  the  hospitals.  They  are  full  of  genius,  too.  I  have  seen 
many  hundreds  of  them  and  this  is  my  testimony.  There  are,  how 
ever,  serious  deficiencies,  wastes,  sad  want  of  system,  in  the  commis 
sions,  contributions,  and  in  all  the  voluntary,  and  a  great  part  of  the 
governmental  nursing,  edibles,  medicines,  stores,  &c.  (I  do  not  say 
surgical  attendance,  because  the  surgeons  cannot  do  more  than  hu 
man  endurance  permits.)  Whatever  puffing  accounts  there  may  be 
in  the  papers  of  the  North,  this  is  the  actual  fact.  No  thorough 
previous  preparation,  no  system,  no  foresight,  no  genius.  Always 
plenty  of  stores,  no  doubt,  but  never  where  they  are  needed,  and 
never  the  proper  application.  Of  all  harrowing  experiences,  none 
is  greater  than  that  of  the  days  following  a  heavy  battle.  Scores, 
hundreds  of  the  noblest  men  on  earth,  uncomplaining,  lie  helpless, 
mangled,  faint,  alone,  and  so  bleed  to  death,  or  die  from  exhaus 
tion,  either  actually  untouch'd  at  all,  or  merely  the  laying  of  them 
down  and  leaving  them,  when  there  ought  to  be  means  provided  to 
save  them. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  53 

THE  BLUE  This  city,  its  suburbs,  thecapitol,  the  front 

EVERYWHERE  of  the  White  House,  the  places  of  amuse 

ment,  the  Avenue,  and  all  the  main  streets, 

swarm  with  soldiers  this  winter,  more  than  ever  before.  Some  are  out 
from  the  hospitals,  some  from  the  neighboring  camps,  &c.  One 
source  or  another,  they  pour  plenteously,  and  make,  I  should  say,  the 
mark'd  feature  in  the  human  movement  and  costume-appearance  of  our 
national  city.  Their  blue  pants  and  overcoats  are  everywhere.  The 
clump  of  crutches  is  heard  up  the  stairs  of  the  paymasters'  offices,  and 
there  are  characteristic  groups  around  the  doors  of  the  same,  often 
waiting  long  and  wearily  in  the  cold.  Toward  the  latter  part  of  the 
afternoon,  you  see  the  furlough* d  men,  sometimes  singly,  sometimes 
in  small  squads,  making  their  way  to  the  Baltimore  depot.  At  all 
times,  except  early  in  the  morning,  the  patrol  detachments  are  moving 
around,  especially  during  the  earlier  hours  of  evening,  examining  passes, 
and  arresting  all  soldiers  without  them.  They  do  not  question  the  one- 
legged,  or  men  badly  disabled  or  main'd,  but  all  others  are  stopt. 
They  also  go  around  evenings  through  the  auditoriums  of  the  theatres, 
and  make  officers  and  all  show  their  passes,  or  other  authority,  for 
being  there. 

A  MODEL  HOSPI-  Sunday,  January  2^tbt  1865. — Have 
TAL  been  in  Armory-square  this  afternoon.  The 

wards  are  very  comfortable,  new  floors  and 

plaster  walls,  and  models  of  neatness.  I  am  not  sure  but  this  is  a  model 
hospital  after  all,  in  important  respects.  I  found  several  sad  cases 
of  old  lingering  wounds.  One  Delaware  soldier,  William  H.  Millis, 
from  Bridgeville,  whom  I  had  been  with  after  the  battles  of  the 
Wilderness,  last  May,  where  he  receiv'd  a  very  bad  wound  in  the 
chest,  with  another  in  the  left  arm,  and  whose  case  was  serious 
(pneumonia  had  set  in)  all  last  June  and  July,  I  now  find  well  enough 
to  do  light  duty.  For  three  weeks  at  the  time  mention* d  he  just 
hovered  between  life  and  death. 

BOYS  IN  THE  As  I  walk'd  home  about  sunset,  I  saw  in 

ARMY  Fourteenth    street    a    very  young    soldier, 

thinly  clad,  standing  near  the  house  I  was 

about  to  enter.  I  stopt  a  moment  in  front  of  the  door  and  call'd  him 
to  me.  I  knew  that  an  old  Tennessee  regiment,  and  also  an  Indiana 
regiment,  were  temporarily  stopping  in  new  barracks,  near  Fourteenth 
street.  This  boy  I  found  belonged  to  the  Tennessee  regiment.  But  I 
could  hardly  believe  he  carried  a  musket.  He  was  but  i  5  years  old, 
yet  had  been  twelve  months  a  soldier,  and  had  borne  his  part  in  several 
battles,  even  historic  ones.  I  ask'd  him  if  he  did  not  suffer  from  the 


54  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

cold,  and  if  he  had  no  overcoat.  No,  he  did  not  suffer  from  cold,  and 
had  no  overcoat,  but  could  draw  one  whenever  he  wish'd.  His  father 
was  dead,  and  his  mother  living  in  some  part  of  East  Tennessee  ;  all 
the  men  were  from  that  part  of  the  country.  The  next  forenoon  T  saw 
the  Tennessee  and  Indiana  regiments  marching  down  the  Avenue. 
My  boy  was  with  the  former,  stepping  along  with  the  rest.  There 
were  many  other  boys  no  older.  I  stood  and  watch' d  them  as  they 
tramp*  d  along  with  slow,  strong,  heavy,  regular  steps.  There  did  not 
appear  to  be  a  man  over  30  years  of  age,  and  a  large  proportion  were 
from  15  to  perhaps  22  or  23.  They  had  all  the  look  of  veterans, 
worn,  stain' d,  impassive,  and  a  certain  unbent,  lounging  gait,  carrying 
in  addition  to  their  regular  arms  and  knapsacks,  frequently  a  frying-pan, 
broom,  &c.  They  were  all  of  pleasant  physiognomy ;  no  refinement, 
nor  blanch' d  with  intellect,  but  as  my  eye  pick'd  them,  moving  along, 
rank  by  rank,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  a  single  repulsive,  brutal  or 
markedly  stupid  face  among  them. 

BURIAL  OF  A  Here  is  an  incident  just  occurr'd  in  one  of 

LADY  NURSE  the  hospitals.    A  lady  named  Miss  or  Mrs. 

Billings,    who  has  long  been   a  practical 

friend  of  soldiers,  and  nurse  in  the  army,  and  had  become  attached  to 
it  in  a  way  that  no  one  can  realize  but  him  or  her  who  has  had  experi 
ence,  was  taken  sick,  early  this  winter,  linger' d  some  time,  and  finally 
died  in  the  hospital.  It  was  her  request  that  she  should  be  buried 
among  the  soldiers,  and  after  the  military  method.  This  request  was 
fully  carried  out.  Her  coffin  was  carried  to  the  grave  by  soldiers, 
with  the  usual  escort,  buried,  and  a  salute  fired  over  the  grave.  This 
was  at  Annapolis  a  few  days  since. 

FEMALE   NURSES          There  are  many  women  in  one  position  or 

FOR    SOLDIERS  another,   among  the  hospitals,   mostly   as 

nurses  here  in  Washington,  and  among  the 

military  stations;  quite  a  number  of  them  young  ladies  acting  as  volun 
teers.  They  are  a  help  in  certain  ways,  and  deserve  to  be  mention' d 
with  respect.  Then  it  remains  to  be  distinctly  said  that  few  or  no 
young  ladies,  under  the  irresistible  conventions  of  society,  answer  the 
practical  requirements  of  nurses  for  soldiers.  Middle-aged  or  healthy 
and  good  condition' d  elderly  women,  mothers  of  children,  are  always 
best.  Many  of  the  wounded  must  be  handled.  A  hundred  things 
which  cannot  be  gainsay' d,  must  occur  and  must  be  done.  The  pres 
ence  of  a  good  middle-aged  or  elderly  woman,  the  magnetic  touch  of 
hands,  the  expressive  features  of  the  mother,  the  silent  soothing  of  her 
presence,  her  words,  her  knowledge  and  privileges  arrived  at  only 
through  having  had  children,  are  precious  and  final  qualifications.  It 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  55 

is  a  natural  faculty  that  is  required;  it  is  not  merely  having  a  genteel 
young  woman  at  a  table  in  a  ward.      One  of  the  finest  nurses  I  met 
was  a  red-faced  illiterate  old   Irish  woman;  I  have  seen   her  take 
poor  wasted  naked  boys  so  tenderly  up  in  her  arms.      There  are  plenty 
of  excellent  clean  old  black  women  that  would  make  tip-top  nurses. 

SOUTHERN  ES-  Feb.  23,  '65.—  I  saw  a  large  procession 

C  A  PEES  of  young  men  from  the  rebel  army,  (de 

serters  they  are  call'd,  but  the  usual  mean 
ing  of  the  word  does  not  apply  to  them,)  passing  the  Avenue  to-day. 
There  were  nearly  zoo,  come  up  yesterday  by  boat  from  James  river. 
I  stood  and  watch' d  them  as  they  shuffled  along,  in  a  slow,  tired,  worn 
sort  of  way;  a  large  proportion  of  light-hair' d,  blonde,  light  gray-eyed 
young  men  among  them.  Their  costumes  had  a  dirt-stain' d  uni 
formity;  most  had  been  originally  gray;  some  had  articles  of  our 
uniform,  pants  on  one,  vest  or  coat  on  another;  I  think  they  were 
mostly  Georgia  and  North  Carolina  boys.  They  excited  little  or  no 
attention.  As  I  stood  quite  close  to  them,  several  good  looking  enough 
youths,  (but  O  what  a  tale  of  misery  their  appearance  told,)  nodded 
or  just  spoke  to  me,  without  doubt  divining  pity  and  fatherliness  out  of 
my  face,  for  my  heart  was  full  enough  of  it.  Several  of  the  couples 
trudg'd  along  with  their  arms  about  each  other,  some  probably  brothers, 
as  if  they  were  afraid  they  might  somehow  get  separated.  They 
nearly  all  look'd  what  one  might  call  simple,  yet  intelligent,  too. 
Some  had  pieces  of  old  carpet,  some  blankets,  and  others  old  bags 
around  their  shoulders.  Some  of  them  here  and  there  had  fine  faces, 
still  it  was  a  procession  of  misery.  The  two  hundred  had  with  them 
about  half  a  dozen  arm'd  guards.  Along  this  week  I  saw  some  such 
procession,  more  or  less  in  numbers,  every  day,  as  they  were  brought 
up  by  the  boat.  The  government  does  what  it  can  for  them,  and 
sends  them  north  and  west. 

Feb.  27. Some  three  or  four  hundred  more  escapees  from  the  con 
federate  army  came  up  on  the  boat.  As  the  day  has  been  very  pleas 
ant  indeed,  (after  a  long  spell  of  bad  weather,)  I  have  been  wandering 
around  a  good  deal,  without  any  other  object  than  to  be  out-doors  and 
enjoy  it;  have  met  these  escaped  men  in  all  directions.  ^  Their  apparel 
is  the  same  ragged,  long- worn  motley  as  before  described.  I  talk'd 
with  a  number  of  the  men.  Some  are  quite  bright  and  stylish,  for  all 
their  poor  clothes  — walking  with  an  air,  wearing  their  old  head-cover 
ings  on  one  side,  quite  saucily.  I  find  the  old,  unquestionable  proofs, 
as  all  along  the  past  four  years,  of  the  unscrupulous  tyranny  exercised 
by  the  secession  government  in  conscripting  the  common  people  by 
absolute  force  everywhere,  and  paying  no  attention  whatever  to  the 
men's  time  being  up — keeping  them  in  military  service  just  the  same. 


56  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

One  gigantic  young  fellow,  a  Georgian,  at  least  six  feet  three  inches 
high,  broad-sized  in  proportion,  attired  in  the  dirtiest,  drab,  well- 
smear' d  rags,  tied  with  strings,  his  trousers  at  the  knees  all  strips  and 
streamers,  was  complacently  standing  eating  some  bread  and  meat. 
He  appeared  contented  enough.  Then  a  few  minutes  after  I  saw  him 
slowly  walking  along.  It  was  plain  he  did  not  take  anything  to 
heart. 

Feb.  28. — As  I  pass'd  the  military  headquarters  of  the  city,  not  far 
from  the  President's  house,  I  stopt  to  interview  some  of  the  crowd  of 
escapees  who  were  lounging  there.  In  appearance  they  were  the  same 
as  previously  mention' d.  Two  of  them,  one  about  17,  and  the  other 
perhaps  25  or  '6,  I  talk'd  with  some  time.  They  were  from  North 
Carolina,  born  and  rais'd  there,  and  had  folks  there.  The  elder  had 
been  in  the  rebel  service  four  years.  He  was  first  conscripted  for  two 
years.  He  was  then  kept  arbitrarily  in  the  ranks.  This  is  the  case 
with  a  large  proportion  of  the  secession  army.  There  was  nothing 
downcast  in  these  young  men's  manners;  the  younger  had  been  soldier 
ing  about  a  year;  he  was  conscripted;  there  were  six  brothers  (all  the 
boys  of  the  family)  in  the  army,  part  of  them  as  conscripts,  part  as 
volunteers;  three  had  been  kilPd;  one  had  escaped  about  four  months 
ago,  and  now  this  one  had  got  away ;  he  was  a  pleasant  and  well- 
talking  lad,  with  the  peculiar  North  Carolina  idiom  (not  at  all  disagree 
able  to  my  ears.)  He  and  the  elder  one  were  of  the  same  company, 
and  escaped  together — and  wish'd  to  remain  together.  They  thought 
of  getting  transportation  away  to  Missouri,  and  working  there  ;  but 
were  not  sure  it  was  judicious.  I  advised  them  rather  to  go  to  some  of 
the  directly  northern  States,  and  get  farm  work  for  the  present.  The 
younger  had  made  six  dollars  on  the  boat,  with  some  tobacco  he 
brought ;  he  had  three  and  a  half  left.  The  elder  had  nothing ;  I  gave 
him  a  trifle.  Soon  after,  met  John  Wormley,  9th  Alabama,  a  West 
Tennessee  rais'd  boy,  parents  both  dead  —  had  the  look  of  one  for  a 
long  time  on  short  allowance  —  said  very  little  —  chew'd  tobacco  at  a 
fearful  rate,  spitting  in  proportion  —  large  clear  dark-brown  eyes,  very 
fine  —  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  me  —  told  me  at  last  he  wanted 
much  to  get  some  clean  underclothes,  and  a  pair  of  decent  pants. 
Didn't  care  about  coat  or  hat  fixings.  Wanted  a  chance  to  wash 
himself  well,  and  put  on  the  underclothes.  I  had  the  very  great 
pleasure  of  helping  him  to  accomplish  all  those  wholesome  designs. 

March  ist. — Plenty  more  butternut  or  clay-color' d  escapees  every 
day.  About  160  came  in  to-day,  a  large  portion  South  Carolinians. 
They  generally  take  the  oath  of  allegiance,  and  are  sent  north,  west, 
or  extreme  south-west  if  they  wish.  Several  of  them  told  me  that  the 
desertions  in  their  army,  of  men  going  home,  leave  or  no  leave,  are  far 
more  numerous  than  their  desertions  to  our  side.  I  saw  a  very  f'orion: 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  57 

looking  squad  of  about  a  hundred,  late  this  afternoon,  on  their  way  to 
the  Baltimore  depot. 

THE  CAPITOL  BY  To-night  I  have  been  wandering  awhile  in 
GAS-LIGHT  the  capitol,  which  is  all  lit  up.  The  illu 

minated  rotunda  looks  fine.      I  like  to  stand 

aside  and  look  a  long,  long  while,  up  at  the  dome  ;  it  comforts  me 
somehow.  The  House  and  Senate  were  both  in  session  till  very  late. 
I  look'd  in  upon  them,  but  only  a  few  moments  ;  they  were  hard  at 
work  on  tax  and  appropriation  bills.  I  wander' d  through  the  long  and 
rich  corridors  and  apartments  under  the  Senate  ;  an  old  habit  of  mine, 
former  winters,  and  now  more  satisfaction  than  ever.  Not  many  per 
sons  down  there,  occasionally  a  flitting  figure  in  the  distance. 

THE  INAUGURA-  March  4tb. — The  President  very  quietly 
TION  rode  down  to  the  capitol  in  his  own  car 

riage,  by  himself,  on  a  sharp  trot,  about 

noon,  either  because  he  wish'd  to  be  on  hand  to  sign  bills,  or  to  get 
rid  of  marching  in  line  with  the  absurd  procession,  the  muslin  temple 
of  liberty  and  pasteboard  monitor.  I  saw  him  on  his  return,  at  three 
o'clock,  after  the  performance  was  over.  He  was  in  his  plain  two- 
horse  barouche,  and  look'd  very  much  worn  and  tired  ;  the  lines, 
indeed,  of  vast  responsibilities,  intricate  questions,  and  demands  of  life 
and  death,  cut  deeper  than  ever  upon  his  dark  brown  face  ;  yet  all  the 
old  goodness,  tenderness,  sadness,  and  canny  shrewdness,  underneath 
the  furrows.  (I  never  see  that  man  without  feeling  that  he  is  one  to 
become  personally  attach' d  to,  for  his  combination  of  purest,  heartiest 
tenderness,  and  native  western  form  of  manliness. )  By  his  side  sat  his 
little  boy,  of  ten  years.  There  were  no  soldiers,  only  a  lot  of  civilians 
on  horseback,  with  huge  yellow  scarfs  over  their  shoulders,  riding 
around  the  carriage.  (At  the  inauguration  four  years  ago,  he  rode 
down  and  back  again  surrounded  by  a  dense  mass  of  arm' d  cavalrymen 
eight  deep,  with  drawn  sabres  ;  and  there  were  sharpshooters  station' d 
at  every  corner  on  the  route.)  I  ought  to  make  mention  of  the  closing 
levee  of  Saturday  night  last.  Never  before  was  such  a  compact  jam  in 
front  of  the  White  House  —  all  the  grounds  fill'd,  and  away  out  to  the 
spacious  sidewalks.  I  was  there,  as  I  took  a  notion  to  go  —  was  in  the 
rush  inside  with  the  crowd  —  surged  along  the  passage-ways,  the  blue 
and  other  rooms,  and  through  the  great  east  room.  Crowds  of  coun 
try  people,  some  very  funny.  Fine  music  from  the  Marine  band,  off 
in  a  side  place.  I  saw  Mr.  Lincoln,  drest  all  in  black,  with  white 
kid  gloves  and  a  claw-hammer  coat,  receiving,  as  in  duty  bound, 
shaking  hands,  looking  very  disconsolate,  and  as  if  he  would  give  any 
thing  to  be  somewhere  else. 


58  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ATTITUDE  OF  FOR-  Looking  over  my  scraps,  I  find  I  wrote 
EIGN  GOVERN-  the  following  during  1864.  The  happen- 

MENTS  DURING  ing  to  our  America,  abroad  as  well  as  at 

THE   WAR  home,  these  years,  is  indeed  most  strange. 

The  democratic  republic  has  paid  her  to 
day  the  terrible  and  resplendent  compliment  of  the  united  wish  of  all 
the  nations  of  the  world  that  her  union  should  be  broken,  her  future 
cut  off,  and  that  she  should  be  compell'd  to  descend  to  the  level  of 
kingdoms  and  empires  ordinarily  great.  There  is  certainly  not  one 
government  in  Europe  but  is  now  watching  the  war  in  this  country, 
with  the  ardent  prayer  that  the  United  States  may  be  effectually  split, 
crippled,  and  dismember*  d  by  it.  There  is  not  one  but  would  help 
toward  that  dismemberment,  if  it  dared.  I  say  such  is  the  ardent  wish 
to-day  of  England  and  of  France,  as  governments,  and  of  all  the  na 
tions  of  Europe,  as  governments.  I  think  indeed  it  is  to-day  the  real, 
heartfelt  wish  of  all  the  nations  of  the  world,  with  the  single  exception 
of  Mexico  —  Mexico,  the  only  one  to  whom  we  have  ever  really 
done  wrong,  and  now  the  only  one  who  prays  for  us  and  for  our  tri 
umph,  with  genuine  prayer.  Is  it  not  indeed  strange  ?  America, 
made  up  of  all,  cheerfully  from  the  beginning  opening  her  arms  to  all, 
the  result  and  justifier  of  all,  of  Britain,  Germany,  France  and  Spain 
— all  here — the  accepter,  the  friend,  hope,  last  resource  and  general 
house  of  all  —  she  who  has  harm'd  none,  but  been  bounteous  to  so 
many,  to  millions,  the  mother  of  strangers  and  exiles,  all  nations  — 
should  now,  I  say,  be  paid  this  dread  compliment  of  general  govern 
mental  fear  and  hatred.  Are  we  indignant  ?  alarm' d?  Do  we  feel 
jeopardized?  No;  help'd,  braced,  concentrated,  rather.  We  are  all 
too  prone  to  wander  from  ourselves,  to  affect  Europe,  and  watch  her 
frowns  and  smiles.  We  need  this  hot  lesson  of  general  hatred,  and 
henceforth  must  never  forget  it.  Never  again  will  we  trust  the  moral 
sense  nor  abstract  friendliness  of  a  single  government  of  the  old  world. 

THE  WEATHER—  Whether  the  rains,  the  heat  and  cold, 
DOES  IT  SYMPA-  and  what  underlies  them  all,  are  affected 

THIZE  WITH  with  what  affects  man  in  masses,  and  fol- 

THESE  TIMES  ?  low  his  play  of  passionate  action,  strain' d 

stronger  than  usual,  and  on  a  larger   scale 

than  usual  —  whether  this,  or  no,  it  is  certain  that  there  is 
now,  and  has  been  for  twenty  months  or  more,  on  this  Ameri 
can  continent  north,  many  a  remarkable,  many  an  unprecedented 
expression  of  the  subtile  world  of  air  above  us  and  around 
us.  There,  since  this  war,  and  the  wide  and  deep  national  agitation, 
strange  analogies,  different  combinations,  a  different  sunlight,  or  ab 
sence  of  it ;  different  products  even  out  of  the  ground.  After  every 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  59 

great  battle,  a  great  storm.  Even  civic  events  the  same.  On  Saturday 
last  a  forenoon  like  whirling  demons,  dark,  with  slanting  ram  full  of 
rage  -  and  then  the  afternoon,  so  calm,  so  bathed  with  flooding 
splendor  from  heaven's  most  excellent  sun,  with  atmosphere  of  swee 
ness ;  so  clear,  it  show'd  the  stars,  long  long  before  they  were  due. 
As  the  President  came  out  on  the  capitol  portico,  a  curious  little  white 
cloud,  the  only  one  in  that  part  of  the  sky,  appear' d  like  a  hovering 
bird,  right  over  him.  . 

Indeed,  the  heavens,  the  elements,  all  the  meteorological  influences, 
have  run  riot  for  weeks  past.      Such  caprices,   abruptest  alternation  of 
frowns  and  beauty,  I  never  knew.      It  is  a  common  remark  that  (as 
last  summer  was  different  in  its  spells  of  intense  heat  from  any  preced 
ing  it,)  the  winter  just  completed  has   been  without  parallel.      It  has 
remain' d  so  down  to  the  hour  I  am  writing.      Much  of  the  daytime  of 
the  past  month  was  sulky,  with  leaden  heaviness,  fog,  interstices  of  bit- 
ter  cold,  and  some  insane  storms.      But  there   have  been  samples   of 
another  description.     Nor  earth  nor  sky  ever  knew  spectacles  of  superber 
beauty  than  some  of  the  nights  lately  here.      The  western  star    Venus, 
in  the  earlier  hours  of  evening,  has  never  been  so  large,   so  clear  ;  ^  it 
seems  as  if  it   told   something,    as    if  it  held   rapport  indulgent  with 
humanity,  with  us  Americans.      Five  or  six  nights  since,  it  hung  close 
by  the  moon,  then  a  little  past  its  first  quarter.     The  star  was  wonder 
ful    the  moon  like  a  young  mother.      The  sky,    dark  blue,  ^  the  trans- 
parent  night,  the  planets,  the  moderate  west  wind,  the  elastic  tempera 
ture,  the  miracle  of  that  great  star,  and  the  young  and   swelling  moon 
swimming  in  the  west,  suffused   the  soul.      Then  I  heard,   slow  and 
clear,  the  deliberate  notes  of  a  bugle  come  up  out  of  the  silence,  sound 
ing  so  good  through  the  night's  mystery,  no  hurry,   but  firm  and  faitt 
fill,  floating  along,  rising,  falling  leisurely,  with  here  and  there  a  long- 
drawn  note  ;    the  bugle,  well  play'd,  sounding  tattoo,  in  one  of  the 
army  hospitals  near  here,  where  the  wounded  (some  of  them  personally 
so  dear  to  me,)  are  lying  in  their  cots,  and  many  a  sick  boy  come 
down  to  the  war  from  Illinois,  Michigan,  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  and  the 


rest. 


INAUGURATION  March  6.—  I  have  been  up  to  look  at  the 

BALL  dance  and  supper-rooms,  for  the  inaugura 

tion  ball  at  the  Patent  office  ;  and  I  could 

not  help  thinking,  what  a  different  scene  they  presented  to  mv  view  a 
while  since,  fill'd  with  a  crowded  mass  of  the  worst  wounded  of  the 
war,  brought  in  from  second  Bull  Run,  Antietam,and  Fredencksburgh. 
To-night  beautiful  women,  perfumes,  the  violin's  sweetness,  the  polka 
and  the  waltz  ;  then  the  amputation,  the  blue  face,  the  groan  the 
glassy  eye  of  the  dying,  the  clotted  rag,  the  odor  of  wounds  andb  od, 


60  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  many  a  mother's  son  amid  strangers,  passing  away  untended  there, 
(for  the  crowd  of  the  badly  hurt  was  great,  and  much  for  nurse  to  do, 
and  much  for  surgeon.) 

SCENE  AT  THE  I  must  mention  a  strange  scene  at  the  capi- 

CAPITOL  tol,  the  hall  of  Representatives,  the  morn 

ing  of  Saturday  last,  (March  4th.)      The 

day  just  dawn'd,  but  in  half-darkness,  everything  dim,  leaden,  and 
soaking.  In  that  dim  light,  the  members  nervous  from  long  drawn 
duty,  exhausted,  some  asleep,  and  many  half  asleep.  The  gas-light, 
mix'd  with  the  dingy  day-break,  produced  an  unearthly  effect.  The 
poor  little  sleepy,  stumbling  pages,  the  smell  of  the  hall,  the  members 
with  heads  leaning  on  their  desks,  the  sounds  of  the  voices  speaking, 
with  unusual  intonations  —  the  general  moral  atmosphere  also  of  the 
close  of  this  important  session  —  the  strong  hope  that  the  war  is 
approaching  its  close  —  the  tantalizing  dread  lest  the  hope  may  be  a 
false  one  —  the  grandeur  of  the  hall  itself,  with  its  effect  of  vast  shadows 
up  toward  the  panels  and  spaces  over  the  galleries  —  all  made  a  mark'd 
combination. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  with  the  suddenness  of  a  thunderbolt,  burst  one 
of  the  most  angry  and  crashing  storms  of  rain  and  hail  ever  heard.  It 
beat  like  a  deluge  on  the  heavy  glass  roof  of  the  hall,  and  the  wind 
literally  howl'd  and  roar'd.  For  a  moment,  (and  no  wonder,)  the 
nervous  and  sleeping  Representatives  were  thrown  into  confusion. 
The  slumberers  awaked  with  fear,  some  started  for  the  doors,  some 
look'd  up  with  blanch' d  cheeks  and  lips  to  the  roof,  and  the  little  pages 
began  to  cry  ;  it  was  a  scene.  But  it  was  over  almost  as  soon  as  the 
drowsied  men  were  actually  awake.  They  recovered  themselves ;  the 
storm  raged  on,  beating,  dashing,  and  with  loud  noises  at  times.  But 
the  House  went  ahead  with  its  business  then,  I  think,  as  calmly  and 
with  as  much  deliberation  as  at  any  time  in  its  career.  Perhaps  the 
shock  did  it  good.  (One  is  not  without  impression,  after  all,  amid 
these  members  of  Congress,  of  both  the  Houses,  that  if  the  flat  routine 
of  their  duties  should  ever  be  broken  in  upon  by  some  great  emergency 
involving  real  danger,  and  calling  for  first-class  personal  qualities,  those 
qualities  would  be  found  generally  forthcoming,  and  from  men  not  now 
credited  with  them.) 

A  YANKEE  AN-  March   27,  /^.—Sergeant  Calvin  F. 

TIQUE  Harlowe,  company  C,  29th  Massachusetts, 

3d  brigade,  1st  division,  Ninth  corps  —  a 

mark'd  sample  of  heroism  and  death,  (some  may  say  bravado,  but  I 
say  heroism,  of  grandest,  oldest  order)  —  in  the  late  attack  by  the 
rebel  troops,  and  temporary  capture  by  them,  of  fort  Steadman,  at 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  61 

night.  The  fort  was  surprised  at  dead  of  night.  Suddenly  awaken'd 
from  their  sleep,  and  rushing  from  their  tents,  Harlowe,  with  others, 
found  himself  in  the  hands  of  the  secesh  —  they  demanded  his  sur 
render —  he  answer'd,  Never  while  I  live.  (Of  course  it  was  useless. 
The  others  surrender' d  ;  the  odds  were  too  great.)  Again  he  was 
ask'd  to  yield,  this  time  by  a  rebel  captain.  Though  surrounded,  and 
quite  calm,  he  again  refused,  call'd  sternly  to  his  comrades  to  fight  on, 
and  himself  attempted  to  do  so.  The  rebel  captain  then  shot  him  — 
but  at  the  same  instant  he  shot  the  captain.  Both  fell  together  mor 
tally  wounded.  Harlowe  died  almost  instantly.  The  rebels  were 
driven  out  in  a  very  short  time.  The  body  was  buried  next  day,  but 
soon  taken  up  and  sent  home,  (Plymouth  county,  Mass.)  Harlowe 
was  only  22  years  of  age  —  was  a  tall,  slim,  dark-hair' d,  blue-eyed 
young  man  —  had  come  out  originally  with  the  29th  ;  and  that  is  the 
way  he  met  his  death,  after  four  years'  campaign.  He  was  in  the 
Seven  Days  fight  before  Richmond,  in  second  Bull  Run,  Antietam, 
first  Fredericksburgh,  Vicksburgh,  Jackson,  Wilderness,  and  the  cam 
paigns  following  —  was  as  good  a  soldier  as  ever  wore  the  blue,  and 
every  old  officer  in  the  regiment  will  bear  that  testimony.  Though 
so  young,  and  in  a  common  rank,  he  had  a  spirit  as  resolute  and  brave 
as  any  hero  in  the  books,  ancient  or  modern  —  It  was  too  great  to  say 
the  words  "I  surrender"  — and  so  he  died.  (When  I  think  of  such 
things,  knowing  them  well,  all  the  vast  and  complicated  events  of  the 
war,  on  which  history  dwells  and  makes  its  volumes,  fall  aside,  and  for 
the  moment  at  any  rate  I  see  nothing  but  young  Calvin  Harlowe' s 
figure  in  the  night,  disdaining  to  surrender.) 

WOUNDS    AND  The    war  is  over,  but    the    hospitals  are 

DISEASES  fuller  than  ever,  from  former  and  current 

cases.      A  large  majority  of  the  wounds 

are  in  the  arms  and  legs.  But  there  is  every  kind  of  wound,  in  every 
part  of  the  body.  I  should  say  of  the  sick,  from  my  observation,  that 
the  prevailing  maladies  are  typhoid  fever  and  the  camp  fevers  generally, 
diarrhoea,  catarrhal  affections  and  bronchitis,  rheumatism  and  pneu 
monia.  These  forms  of  sickness  lead  ;  all  the  rest  follow.  There  are 
twice  as  many  sick  as  there  are  wounded.  The  deaths  range  from 
seven  to  ten  per  cent,  of  those  under  treatment.* 

DEATH  OF  PRESI-  April  1 6,  '65. — I  find  in  my  notes  of  the 
DENT  LINCOLN  time,  this  passage  on  the  death  of  Abra 

ham  Lincoln  :      He  leaves   for  America's 
history  and  biography,  so  far,  not  only  its  most  dramatic  reminiscence 

*  In  the  U.  S.  Surgeon-General's  office  since,  there  is  a  formal  record 
and    treatment    of  253,142    cases    of  wounds    by  government    surgeons. 


62  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

—  he   leaves,   in    my    opinion,   the    greatest,    best,    most    character 
istic,  artistic,    moral    personality.      Not    but  that  he  had  faults,  and 
show'  d  them  in  the  Presidency  ;  but  honesty,  goodness,  shrewdness, 
conscience,  and  (a  new  virtue,  unknown  to  other  lands,  and  hardly  yet 
really  known  here,  but  the  foundation  and  tie  of  all,  as  the  future  will 
grandly  develop,)  UNIONISM,  in  its  truest  and  amplest  sense,  form'd 
the  hard-pan  of  his  character.      These  he  seal'd  with  his  life.      The 
tragic  splendor  of  his  death,  purging,  illuminating  all,  throws  round  his 
form,  his  head,  an  aureole  that   will  remain  and   will  grow  brighter 
through  time,  while  history  lives,  and  love  of  country  lasts.      By  many 
has    this  Union  been    help'd  ;  but  if  one  name,  one  man,  must  be 
pick'd  out,  he,  most  of  all,  is  the  conservator  of  it,  to  the  future.      He 
was  assassinated  —  but  the  Union  is  not  assassinated  —  fa  ira  !     One 
falls  and  another  falls.      The  soldier  drops,  sinks  like  a  wave  —  but 
the  ranks  of  the  ocean  eternally  press  on.      Death  does  its  work,  oblit- 

/  crates  a  hundred,  a  thousand  —  President,  general,  captain,  private,  — 
/  but  the  Nation  is  immortal. 

SHERMAN'S  When  Sherman's  armies,  (long  after  they 

AR M  Y'  S  J  UBILA-  left  Atlanta, )  were  marching  through  South 

TION  — ITS  SUD-  and   North    Carolina  —  after   leaving  Sa- 

DEN  STOPPAGE  vannah,  the  news  of  Lee's  capitulation  hav 

ing  been  receiv'd  —  the  men  never  mov'd 

a  mile  without  from  some  part  of  the  line  sending  up  continued,  in 
spiriting  shouts.  At  intervals  all  day  long  sounded  out  the  wild  music 
of  those  peculiar  army  cries.  They  would  be  commenc'd  by  one  regi 
ment  or  brigade,  immediately  taken  up  by  others,  and  at  length  whole 
corps  and  armies  would  join  in  these  wild  triumphant  choruses.  It  was 
one  of  the  characteristic  expressions  of  the  western  troops,  and  became 
a  habit,  serving  as  a  relief  and  outlet  to  the  men  —  a  vent  for  their  feel 
ings  of  victory,  returning  peace,  &c.  Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 
spontaneous,  for  occasion  or  without  occasion,  these  huge,  strange  cries, 
differing  from  any  other,  echoing  through  the  open  air  for  many  a  mile, 
expressing  youth,  joy,  wildness,  irrepressible  strength,  and  the  ideas  of 
advance  and  conquest,  sounded  along  the  swamps  and  uplands  of  the 
South,  floating  to  the  skies.  ("There  never  were  men  that  kept  in 
better  spirits  in  danger  or  defeat — what  then  could  they  do  in  victory  ?  " 

—  said  one  of  the  I5th  corps  tome,  afterwards.)      This  exuberance 
continued  till  the  armies  arrived  at  Raleigh.     There  the  news  of  the 
President's  murder  was  receiv'd.      Then  no  more  shouts  or  yells,  for  a 
week.      All    the  marching  was  comparatively  muffled.        It  was  very 

What  must  have  been  the  number  unofficial,  indirect  —  to  say  nothing  of 
the  Southern  armies  ? 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  63 

significant  —  hardly  a  loud  word  or  laugh  in  many  of  the  regiments. 
A  hush  and  silence  pervaded  all. 

NO   GOOD  FOR-  Probably  the  reader  has  seen  physiogno- 

TRAIT  OF  LINCOLN    mies  (often  old  farmers,  sea-captains,  and 

such)  that,  behind  their  homeliness,  or  even 

ugliness,  held  superior  points  so  subtle,  yet  so  palpable,  making  the  real 
life  of  their  faces  almost  as  impossible  to  depict  as  a  wild  perfume  or 
fruit-taste,  or  a  passionate  tone  of  the  living  voice  —  and  such  was 
Lincoln's  face,  the  peculiar  color,  the  lines  of  it,  the  eyes,  mouth, 
expression.  Of  technical  beauty  it  had  nothing  —  but  to  the  eye  of  a 
great  artist  it  furnished  a  rare  study,  a  feast  and  fascination.  The  current 
portraits  are  all  failures  —  most  of  them  caricatures. 

RELEAS'D  UNION  The  releas'd  prisoners  of  war  are  now  com- 
PRISONERS  FROM  ing  up  from  the  southern  prisons.  I  have 
SOUTH  seen  a  number  of  them.  The  sight  is 

worse  than  any  sight  of  battle-fields,  or  any 

collection  of  wounded,  even  the  bloodiest.  There  was,  (as  a  sample,) 
one  large  boat  load,  of  several  hundreds,  brought  about  the  25th,  to 
Annapolis;  and  out  of  the  whole  number  only  three  individuals  were 
able  to  walk  from  the  boat.  The  rest  were  carried  ashore  and  laid 
down  in  one  place  or  another.  Can  those  be  men  —  those  little  livid 
brown,  ash-streak'  d,  monkey-looking  dwarfs?  —  are  they  really  not 
mummied,  dwindled  corpses?  They  lay  there,  most  of  them,  quite  still, 
but  with  a  horrible  look  in  their  eyes  and  skinny  lips  (often  with  not 
enough  flesh  on  the  lips  to  cover  their  teeth.)  Probably  no  more  ap 
palling  sight  was  ever  seen  on  this  earth.  (There  are  deeds,  crimes, 
that  may  be  forgiven;  but  this  is  not  among  them.  It  steeps  its  per 
petrators  in  blackest,  escapeless,  endless  damnation.  Over  50,000  have 
been  compell'd  to  die  the  death  of  starvation  —  reader,  did  you  ever 
try  to  realize  what  starvation  actually  is  ?  —  in  those  prisons  —  and  in 
a  land  of  plenty.)  An  indescribable  meanness,  tyranny,  aggravating 
course  of  insults,  almost  incredible  —  was  evidently  the  rule  of  treatment 
through  all  the  southern  military  prisons.  The  dead  there  are  not  to  be 
pitied  as  much  as  some  of  the  living  that  come  from  there  —  -  if  they 
can  be  call'  d  living  —  many  of  them  are  mentally  imbecile,  and  will  never 
recuperate.  * 


*  Front  a  review  of  "  ANDBRSONVILLE,  A  STORY  OF  SOUTHERN  MILITARY  PRISONS," 
Published  serially  in  the  Toledo  "  Blade,"  in  j8?Q,  and  afterwards  in  book  form. 

"There  is  a  deep  fascination  in  the  subject  of  Andersonville  —  for  that 
Golgotha,  in  which  lie  the  whitening  bones  of  13,000  gallant  young  men, 
represents  the  dearest  and  costliest  sacrifice  of  the  war  for  the  preservation 
of  our  national  unity.  It  is  a  type,  too,  of  its  class.  Its  more  than  hun- 


64  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

DEATH  OF  A  Frank  H.  Irwin,  company  E,  gjd  Pennsyt- 

PENNSYLVANIA  vania—died  May  i,  '65—  My  letter  to  bis 

SOLDIER  mother. — Dear  madam:    No  doubt  you 

and  Frank's  friends  have  heard  the  sad  fact 

of  his  death  in  hospital  here,  through  his  uncle,  or  the  lady  from  Balti 
more,  who  took  his  things.  (I  have  not  seen  them,  only  heard 
of  them  visiting  Frank. )  I  will  write  you  a  few  lines  —  as  a  casual 
friend  that  sat  by  his  death-bed.  Your  son,  corporal  Frank  H.  Irwin, 
was  wounded  near  fort  Fisher,  Virginia,  March  25th,  1865 — the 

dred  hecatombs  of  dead  represent  several  times  that  number  of  their 
brethren,  for  whom  the  prison  gates  of  Belle  Isle,  Danville,  Salisbury, 
Florence,  Columbia,  and  Cahaba  open'd  only  in  eternity.  There  are  few 
families  in  the  North  who  have  not  at  least  one  dear  relative  or  friend 
among  these  60,000  whose  sad  fortune  it  was  to  end  their  service  for  the 
Union  by  lying  down  and  dying  for  it  in  a  southern  prison  pen.  The 
manner  of  their  death,  the  horrors  that  clustered  thickly  around  every 
moment  of  their  existence,  the  loyal,  unfaltering  steadfastness  with  which 
they  endured  all  that  fate  had  brought  them,  has  never  been  adequately 
told.  It  was  not  with  them  as  with  their  comrades  in  the  field,  whose 
every  act  was  perform' d  in  the  presence  of  those  whose  duty  it  was  to 
observe  such  matters  and  report  them  to  the  world.  Hidden  from  the 
view  of  their  friends  in  the  north  by  the  impenetrable  veil  which  the  mili 
tary  operations  of  the  rebels  drew  around  the  so-called  confederacy,  the 
people  knew  next  to  nothing  of  their  career  or  their  sufferings.  Thousands 
died  there  less  heeded  even  than  the  hundreds  who  perish'  d  on  the  battle 
field.  Grant  did  not  lose  as  many  men  kill'd  outright,  in  the  terrible  cam 
paign  from  the  Wilderness  to  the  James  river  —  43  days  of  desperate  fight 
ing —  as  died  in  July  and  August  at  Andersonville.  Nearly  twice  as 
many  died  in  that  prison  as  fell  from  the  day  that  Grant  cross' d  the  Rapi- 
dan,  till  he  settled  down  in  the  trenches  before  Petersburg.  More  than 
four  times  as  many  Union  dead  lie  under  the  solemn  soughing  pines  about 
that  forlorn  little  village  in  southern  Georgia,  than  mark  the  course  of 
Sherman  from  Chattanooga  to  Atlanta.  The  nation  stands  aghast  at  the 
expenditure  of  life  which  attended  the  two  bloody  campaigns  of  1864, 
which  virtually  crush'  d  the  confederacy,  but  no  one  remembers  that  more 
Union  soldiers  died  in  the  rear  of  the  rebel  lines  than  were  kill'd  in  the 
front  of  them.  The  great  military  events  which  stamp' d  out  the  rebellion 
drew  attention  away  from  the  sad  drama  which  starvation  and  disease  play'd 
in  those  gloomy  pens  in  the  far  recesses  of  sombre  southern  forests. ' ' 

From  a  letter  of"  Johnny  Bouquet?'  in  N.  Y.  "  Tribune"  March  27,  '8f. 
"I  visited  at  Salisbury,  N.  C.,  the  prison  pen  or  the  site  of  it,  from 
which  nearly  12,000  victims  of  southern  politicians  were  buried,  being  con 
fined  in  a  pen  without  shelter,  exposed  to  all  the  elements  could  do,  to  all 
the  disease  herding  animals  together  could  create,  and  to  all  the  starvation 
and  cruelty  an  incompetent  and  intense  caitiff  government  could  accom 
plish.  From  the  conversation  and  almost  from  the  recollection  of  the 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  65 

wound  was  in  the  left  knee,  pretty  bad.  He  was  sent  up  to  Washing 
ton,  was  receiv'd  in  ward  C,  Armory-square  hospital,  March  z8th  — 
the  wound  became  worse,  and  on  the  4th  of  April  the  leg  was  ampu 
tated  a  little  above  the  knee  —  the  operation  was  perform' d  by  Dr. 
Bliss,  one  of  the  best  surgeons  in  the  army  —  he  did  the  whole  opera 
tion  himself — there  was  a  good  deal  of  bad  matter  gather' d  —  the 
bullet  was  found  in  the  knee.  For  a  couple  of  weeks  afterwards  he 
was  doing  pretty  well.  I  visited  and  sat  by  him  frequently,  as  he  was 
fond  of  having  me.  The  last  ten  or  twelve  days  of  April  I  saw  that  his 
case  was  critical.  He  previously  had  some  fever,  with  cold  spells. 
The  last  week  in  April  he  was  much  of  the  time  flighty  —  but  always 
mild  and  gentle.  He  died  first  of  May.  The  actual  cause  of  death 
was  pyaemia,  (the  absorption  of  the  matter  in  the  system  instead  of  its 
discharge.)  Frank,  as  far  as  I  saw,  had  everything  requisite  in  surgi 
cal  treatment,  nursing,  &c.  He  had  watches  much  of  the  time.  He 
was  so  good  and  well-behaved  and  affectionate,  I  myself  liked  him 
very  much.  I  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  in  afternoons  and  sitting  by 
him,  and  soothing  him,  and  he  liked  to  have  me  —  liked  to  put  his  arm 
out  and  lay  his  hand  on  my  knee  —  would  keep  it  so  a  long  while. 
Toward  the  last  he  was  more  restless  and  flighty  at  night  —  often 
fancied  himself  with  his  regiment  —  by  his  talk  sometimes  seem'd 
as  if  his  feelings  were  hurt  by  being  blamed  by  his  officers  for  some 
thing  he  was  entirely  innocent  of — said,  "I  never  in  my  life  was 
thought  capable  of  such  a  thing,  and  never  was."  At  other  times  he 
would  fancy  himself  talking  as  it  seem'd  to  children  or  such  like,  his 
relatives  I  suppose,  and  giving  them  good  advice ;  would  talk  to  them 

northern  people  this  place  has  dropp'  d,  but  not  so  in  the  gossip  of  the  Salis 
bury  people,  nearly  all  of  whom  say  that  the  half  was  never  told  }  that 
such  was  the  nature  of  habitual  outrage  here  that  when  Federal  prisoners 
escaped  the  townspeople  harbor' d  them  in  their  barns,  afraid  the  vengeance 
of  God  would  fall  on  them,  to  deliver  even  their  enemies  back  to  such 
cruelty.  Said  one  old  man  at  the  Boyden  House,  who  join'd  in  the  con 
versation  one  evening  :  '  There  were  often  men  buried  out  of  that  prison 
pen  still  alive.  I  have  the  testimony  of  a  surgeon  that  he  had  seen  them 
pull'd  out  of  the  dead  cart  with  their  eyes  open  and  taking  notice,  but  too 
weak  to  lift  a  finger.  There  was  not  the  least  excuse  for  such  treatment, 
as  the  confederate  government  had  seized  every  sawmill  in  the  region,  and 
could  just  as  well  have  put  up  shelter  for  these  prisoners  as  not,  wood  being 
plentiful  here.  It  will  be  hard  to  make  any  honest  man  in  Salisbury  say 
that  there  was  the  slightest  necessity  for  those  prisoners  having  to  live  in 
old  tents,  caves  and  holes  half-full  of  water.  Representations  were  made 
to  the  Davis  government  against  the  officers  in  charge  of  it,  but  no  atten 
tion  was  paid  to  them.  Promotion  was  the  punishment  for  cruelty  there. 
The  inmates  were  skeletons.  Hell  could  have  no  terrors  for  any  man  who 
died  there,  except  the  inhuman  keepers.1  " 


66  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

a  long  while.  All  the  time  he  was  out  of  his  head  not  one  single 
bad  word  or  idea  escaped  him.  It  was  remark' d  that  many  a  man's 
conversation  in  his  senses  was  not  half  as  good  as  Frank's  delirium. 
He  seem'd  quite  willing  to  die  —  he  had  become  very  weak  and 
had  suffer' d  a  good  deal,  and  was  perfectly  resign' d,  poor  boy.  I  do 
not  know  his  past  life,  but  I  feel  as  if  it  must  have  been  good.  At 
any  rate  what  I  saw  of  him  here,  under  the  most  trying  circumstances, 
with  a  painful  wound,  and  among  strangers,  I  can  say  that  he  behaved 
so  brave,  so  composed,  and  so  sweet  and  affectionate,  it  could  not 
be  surpass' d.  And  now  like  many  other  noble  and  good  men,  after 
serving  his  country  as  a  soldier,  he  has  yielded  up  his  young  life  at  the 
very  outset  in  her  service.  Such  things  are  gloomy  —  yet  there  is 
a  text,  "  God  doeth  all  things  well  "  — the  meaning  of  which,  after 
due  time,  appears  to  the  soul. 

I  thought  perhaps  a  few  words,  though  from  a  stranger,  about  your 
son,  from  one  who  was  with  him  at  the  last,  might  be  worth  while  —  for 
I  loved  the  young  man,  though  I  but  saw  him  immediately  to  lose  him. 
I  am  merely  a  friend  visiting  the  hospitals  occasionally  to  cheer  the 
wounded  and  sick.  W.  W. 

THE  ARMIES  RE-  May  7.  —Sunday.—  To-day  as  I  was 
TURNING  walking  a  mile  or  two  south  of  Alexandria, 

I  fell  in  with  several  large  squads  of  the 

returning  Western  army,  (Sherman*  s  men  as  they  call'd  themselves) 
about  a  thousand  in  all,  the  largest  portion  of  them  half  sick,  some 
convalescents,  on  their  way  to  a  hospital  camp.  These  fragmentary 
excerpts,  with  the  unmistakable  Western  physiognomy  and  idioms, 
crawling  along  slowly  —  after  a  great  campaign,  blown  this  way,  as  it 
were,  out  of  their  latitude- — I  mark'd  with  curiosity,  and  talk'd  with 
off  and  on  for  over  an  hour.  Here  and  there  was  one  very  sick  ;  but 
all  were  able  to  walk,  except  some  of  the  last,  who  had  given  out,  and 
were  seated  on  the  ground,  faint  and  despondent.  These  I  tried  to 
cheer,  told  them  the  camp  they  were  to  reach  was  only  a  little 
way  further  over  the  hill,  and  so  got  them  up  and  started,  accompany 
ing  some  of  the  worst  a  little  way,  and  helping  them,  or  putting  them 
under  the  support  of  stronger  comrades. 

May  21.  — Saw  General  Sheridan  and  his  cavalry  to-day;  a  strong, 
attractive  sight;  the  men  were  mostly  young,  (a  few  middle-aged,) 
superb-looking  fellows,  brown,  spare,  keen,  with  well-worn  clothing, 
many  with  pieces  of  water-proof  cloth  around  their  shoulders,  hanging 
down.  They  dash'd  along  pretty  fast,  in  wide  close  ranks,  all  spat 
ter*  d  with  mud;  no  holiday  soldiers;  brigade  after  brigade.  I  could 
have  watch' d  for  a  week.  Sheridan  stood  on  a  balcony,  under  a  big 


SPECIMEN   DAYS  67 

tree,  coolly  smoking  a  cigar.  His  looks  and  manner  impress' d  me 
favorably. 

May  22.  —  Have  been  taking  a  walk  along  Pennsylvania  avenue 
and  Seventh  street  north.  The  city  is  full  of  soldiers,  running  around 
loose.  Officers  everywhere,  of  all  grades.  All  have  the  weather- 
beaten  look  of  practical  service.  It  is  a  sight  I  never  tire  of.  All  the 
armies  are  now  here  (or  portions  of  them,)  for  to-morrow's  review. 
You  see  them  swarming  like  bees  everywhere. 

THE  GRAND  RE-  For  two  days  now  the  broad  spaces  of 
VIEW  Pennsylvania  avenue  along  to  Treasury 

hill,    and    so    by    detour    around    to    the 

President's  house,  and  so  up  to  Georgetown,  and  across  the  aqueduct 
bridge,  have  been  alive  with  a  magnificent  sight,  the  returning  armies. 
In  their  wide  ranks  stretching  clear  across  the  Avenue,  I  watch  them 
march  or  ride  along,  at  a  brisk  pace,  through  two  whole  days  —  in 
fantry,  cavalry,  artillery  —  some  200,000  men.  Some  days  after 
wards  one  or  two  other  corps  ;  and  then,  still  afterwards,  a  good  part 
of  Sherman's  immense  army,  brought  up  from  Charleston,  Savannah,  &c. 

WESTERN    SOL-  May   26-7.  —The    streets,     the    public 

DIERS  buildings  and  grounds  of  Washington,  still 

swarm  with  soldiers  from  Illinois,  Indiana, 

Ohio,  Missouri,  Iowa,  and  all  the  Western  States.  I  am  continually 
meeting  and  talking  with  them.  They  often  speak  to  me  first,  and 
always  show  great  sociability,  and  glad  to  have  a  good  interchange  of 
chat.  These  Western  soldiers  are  more  slow  in  their  movements,  and 
in  their  intellectual  quality  also  ;  have  no  extreme  alertness.  They 
are  larger  in  size,  have  a  more  serious  physiognomy,  are  continually 
looking  at  you  as  they  pass  in  the  street.  They  are  largely  animal,  and 
handsomely  so.  During  the  war  I  have  been  at  times  with  the  Four 
teenth,  Fifteenth,  Seventeenth,  and  Twentieth  Corps.  I  always  feel 
drawn  toward  the  men,  and  like  their  personal  contact  when  we  are 
crowded  close  together,  as  frequently  these  days  in  the  street-cars. 
They  all  think  the  world  of  General  Sherman;  call  him  "old  Bill," 
or  sometimes  "uncle  Billy." 

A    SOLDIER    ON  May  28. —  As  I  sat  by  the  bedside  of  a 

LINCOLN  sick  Michigan   soldier  in    hospital  to-day, 

a  convalescent  from  the  adjoining  bed  rose 

and  came  to  me,  and  presently  we  began  talking.  He  was  a  middle- 
aged  man,  belonged  to  the  2d  Virginia  regiment,  but  lived  in  Racine, 
Ohio,  and  had  a  family  there.  He  spoke  of  President  Lincoln,  and 


68  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

said:  "The  war  is  over,  and  many  are  lost.  And  now  we  have  lost 
the  best,  the  fairest,  the  truest  man  in  America.  Take  him  altogether, 
he  was  the  best  man  this  country  ever  produced.  It  was  quite  a  while 
I  thought  very  different ;  but  some  time  before  the  murder,  that's  the 
way  I  have  seen  it."  There  was  deep  earnestness  in  the  soldier. 
(I  found  upon  further  talk  he  had  known  Mr.  Lincoln  personally,  and 
quite  closely,  years  before.)  He  was  a  veteran;  was  now  in  the  fifth 
year  of  his  service ;  was  a  cavalry  man,  and  had  been  in  a  good  deal 
of  hard  fighting. 

TWO  BROTHERS,  May  28-9.  — I  staid  to-night  a  long  time 
ONE  SOUTH,  ONE  by  the  bedside  of  a  new  patient,  a  young 
NORTH  Baltimorean,  aged  about  19  years,  W.  S. 

P.,  (zd  Maryland,  southern,)  very  feeble, 

right  leg  amputated,  can't  sleep  hardly  at  all  —  has  taken  a  great  deal 
of  morphine,  which,  as  usual,  is  costing  more  than  it  comes  to.  Evi 
dently  very  intelligent  and  well  bred  —  very  affectionate  —  held  on  to 
my  hand,  and  put  it  by  his  face,  not  willing  to  let  me  leave.  As  I 
was  lingering,  soothing  him  in  his  pain,  he  says  to  me  suddenly,  "I 
hardly  think  you  know  who  I  am  —  I  don't  wish  to  impose  upon 
you  —  I  am  a  rebel  soldier."  I  said  I  did  not  know  that,  but  it  made 
no  difference.  Visiting  him  daily  for  about  two  weeks  after  that, 
while  he  lived,  (death  had  mark'd  him,  and  he  was  quite  alone,)  I 
loved  him  much,  always  kiss'd  him,  and  he  did  me.  In  an  adjoining 
ward  I  found  his  brother,  an  officer  of  rank,  a  Union  soldier,  a  brave 
and  religious  man,  (Col.  Clifton  K.  Prentiss,  sixth  Maryland  infantry, 
Sixth  corps,  wounded  in  one  of  the  engagements  at  Petersburgh,  April 
2 —  linger' d,  suffer' d  much,  died  in  Brooklyn,  Aug.  20,  '65).  It 
was  in  the  same  battle  both  were  hit.  One  was  a  strong  Unionist, 
the  other  Secesh ;  both  fought  on  their  respective  sides,  both  badly 
wounded,  and  both  brought  together  here  after  a  separation  of  four 
years.  Each  died  for  his  cause. 

SOME  SAD  CASES         May  31.  —James  H.  Williams,  aged  21, 

YET  3d  Virginia   cavalry. — About  as  mark'd 

a  case  of  a  strong  man  brought  low  by  a 

complication  of  diseases,  (laryngitis,  fever,  debility  and  diarrhoea,)  as 
I  have  ever  seen  —  has  superb  physique,  remains  swarthy  yet,  and 
flushed  and  red  with  fever — is  altogether  flighty  —  flesh  of  his  great 
breast  and  arms  tremulous,  and  pulse  pounding  away  with  treble 
quickness  —  lies  a  good  deal  of  the  time  in  a  partial  sleep,  but  with 
low  muttering  and  groans  —  a  sleep  in  which  there  is  no  rest.  Power 
ful  as  he  is,  and  so  young,  he  will  not  be  able  to  stand  many  more 
days  of  the  strain  and  sapping  heat  of  yesterday  and  to-day.  His 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  69 

throat  is  in  a  bad  way,  tongue  and  lips  parch' d.  When  I  ask  him 
how  he  feels,  he  is  able  just  to  articulate,  "  I  feel  pretty  bad  yet,  old 
man,"  and  looks  at  me  with  his  great  bright  eyes.  Father,  John 
Williams,  Millensport,  Ohio. 

June  Q-IO.  —  I  have  been  sitting  late  to-night  by  the  bedside  of  a 
wounded  captain,  a  special  friend  of  mine,  lying  with  a  painful  fracture 
of  left  leg  in  one  of  the  hospitals,  in  a  large  ward  partially  vacant. 
The  lights  were  put  out,  all  but  a  little  candle,  far  from  where  I  sat. 
The  full  moon  shone  in  through  the  windows,  making  long,  slanting 
silvery  patches  on  the  floor.  All  was  still,  my  friend  too  was  silent, 
but  could  not  sleep;  so  I  sat  there  by  him,  slowly  wafting  the  fan, 
and  occupied  with  the  musings  that  arose  out  of  the  scene,  the  long 
shadowy  ward,  the  beautiful  ghostly  moonlight  on  the  floor,  the  white 
beds,  here  and  there  an  occupant  with  huddled  form,  the  bed-clothes 
thrown  off.  The  hospitals  have  a  number  of  cases  of  sun-stroke  and 
exhaustion  by  heat,  from  the  late  reviews.  There  are  many  such  from 
the  Sixth  corps,  from  the  hot  parade  of  day  before  yesterday.  (Some 
of  these  shows  cost  the  lives  of  scores  of  men.) 

Sunday,  Sep.  10.  —  Visited  Douglas  and  Stanton  hospitals.  They 
are  quite  full.  Many  of  the  cases  are  bad  ones,  lingering  wounds, 
and  old  sickness.  There  is  a  more  than  usual  look  of  despair  on  the 
countenances  of  many  of  the  men  ;  hope  has  left  them.  I  went  through 
the  wards,  talking  as  usual.  There  are  several  here  from  the  confeder 
ate  army  whom  I  had  seen  in  other  hospitals,  and  they  recognized  me. 
Two  were  in  a  dying  condition. 

CALHOUN'S  REAL  In  one  of  the  hospital  tents  for  special  cases, 
MONUMENT  as  I  sat  to-day  tending  a  new  amputation, 

I  heard  a  couple  of  neighboring  soldiers  talk 
ing  to  each  other  from  their  cots.  One  down  with  fever,  but  improv 
ing,  had  come  up  belated  from  Charleston  not  long  before.  The  other 
was  what  we  now  call  an  "old  veteran,"  (/.  e.,  he  was  a  Connecti 
cut  youth,  probably  of  less  than  the  age  of  twenty-five  years,  the  four  last 
of  which  he  had  spent  in  active  service  in  the  war  in  all  parts  of  the  coun 
try.)  The  two  were  chatting  of  one  thing  and  another.  The  fever 
soldier  spoke  of  John  C.  Calhoun's  monument,  which  he  had  seen,  and 
was  describing  it.  The  veteran  said  :  "I  have  seen  Calhoun's  monu 
ment.  That  you  saw  is  not  the  real  monument.  But  I  have  seen  it. 
It  is  the  desolated,  ruined  south  ;  nearly  the  whole  generation  of  young 
men  between  seventeen  and  thirty  destroyed  or  maim'd  ;  all  the  old 
families  used  up  —  the  rich  impoverished,  the  plantations  cover' d  with 
weeds,  the  slaves  unloos'd  and  become  the  masters,  and  the  name  of 
southerner  blacken* d  with  every  shame  —  all  that  is  Calhoun's  real 
monument." 


;o  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

HOSPITALS  CLOS-         October  j.  —There  are  two  army  hospi- 

ING  tals  now  remaining.      I  went  to  the  largest 

of  these  (Douglas)  and  spent  the  afternoon 

and  evening.  There  are  many  sad  cases,  old  wounds,  incurable  sick 
ness,  and  some  of  the  wounded  from  the  March  and  April  battles 
before  Richmond.  Few  realize  how  sharp  and  bloody  those  closing 
battles  were.  Our  men  exposed  themselves  more  than  usual ;  press' d 
ahead  without  urging.  Then  the  southerners  fought  with  extra  des 
peration.  Both  sides  knew  that  with  the  successful  chasing  of  the  rebel 
cabal  from  Richmond,  and  the  occupation  of  that  city  by  the  national 
troops,  the  game  was  up.  The  dead  and  wounded  were  unusually 
many.  Of  the  wounded  the  last  lingering  driblets  have  been  brought 
to  hospital  here.  I  find  many  rebel  wounded  here,  and  have  been 
extra  busy  to-day  'tending  to  the  worst  cases  of  them  with  the  rest. 

Or/.,  Nov.  and  Dec.,  '6f — Sundays.  —  Every  Sunday  of  these 
months  visited  Harewood  hospital  out  in  the  woods,  pleasant  and 
recluse,  some  two  and  a  half  or  three  miles  north  of  the  capitol.  The 
situation  is  healthy,  with  broken  ground,  grassy  slopes  and  patches  of 
oak  woods,  the  trees  large  and  fine.  It  was  one  of  the  most  extensive 
of  the  hospitals,  now  reduced  to  four  or  five  partially  occupied  wards, 
the  numerous  others  being  vacant.  In  November,  this  became  the 
last  military  hospital  kept  up  by  the  government,  all  the  others  being 
closed.  Cases  of  the  worst  and  most  incurable  wounds,  obstinate  ill 
ness,  and  of  poor  fellows  who  have  no  homes  to  go  to,  are  found  here. 

Dec.  10 — Sunday. — Again  spending  a  good  part  of  the  day  at 
Harewood.  I  write  this  about  an  hour  before  sundown.  I  have 
walk'd  out  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  edge  of  the  woods  to  soothe  my 
self  with  the  hour  and  scene.  It  is  a  glorious,  warm,  golden-sunny, 
still  afternoon.  The  only  noise  is  from  a  crowd  of  cawing  crows,  on 
some  trees  three  hundred  yards  distant.  Clusters  of  gnats  swimming 
and  dancing  in  the  air  in  all  directions.  The  oak  leaves  are  thick 
under  the  bare  trees,  and  give  a  strong  and  delicious  perfume.  Inside 
the  wards  everything  is  gloomy.  Death  is  there.  As  I  enter Jd,  I 
was  confronted  by  it  the  first  thing  ;  a  corpse  of  a  poor  soldier,  just 
dead,  of  typhoid  fever.  The  attendants  had  just  straighten' d  the 
limbs,  put  coppers  on  the  eyes,  and  were  laying  it  out. 

The  roads. — A  great  recreation,  the  past  three  years,  has  been  in 
taking  long  walks  out  from  Washington,  five,  seven,  perhaps  ten  miles 
and  back  ;  generally  with  my  friend  Peter  Doyle,  who  is  as  fond  of  it 
as  I  am.  Fine  moonlight  nights,  over  the  perfect  military  roads,  hard 
and  smooth  —  or  Sundays  —  we  had  these  delightful  walks,  never  to  be 
forgotten.  The  roads  connecting  Washington  and  the  numerous  forts 
around  the  city,  made  one  useful  result,  at  any  rate,  out  of  the  war. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  71 

TYPICAL  SOLDIERS      Even    the    typical    soldiers    I    have    been 

personally  intimate  with,  —  it  seems  to  me 

if  I  were  to  make  a  list  of  them  it  would  be  like  a  city  directory. 
Some  few  only  have  I  mention' d  in  the  foregoing  pages — most  are 

dead a   few   yet  living.      There  is   Reuben  Farwell,  of  Michigan, 

(little  "  Mitch;  ")  Benton  H.  Wilson,  color-bearer,  1851*1  New  York; 
Wm.  Stansberry  ;  Manvill  Winterstein,  Ohio  ;  Bethuel  Smith  ;  Capt. 
Simms,  of  5ist  New  York,  (kill'd  at  Petersburg!!  mine  explosion,) 
Capt.  Sam.  Pooley  and  Lieut.  Fred.  McReady,  same  reg't.  Also, 
same  reg't.,  my  brother,  George  W.  Whitman  — in  active  service  all 
through,  four  years,  re-enlisting  twice  — was  promoted,  step  by  step, 
(several  times  immediately  after  battles,)  lieutenant,  captain,  major  and 
lieut.  colonel  —  was  in  the  actions  at  Roanoke,  Newbern,  2d  Bull 
Run,  Chantilly,  South  Mountain,  Antietam,  Fredericksburgh,  Vicks- 
burgh,  Jackson,  the  bloody  conflicts  of  the  Wilderness,  and  at  Spott- 
sylvania,  Cold  Harbor,  and  afterwards  around  Petersburgh  ;  at  one  of 
these  latter  was  taken  prisoner,  and  pass'd  four  or  five  months  in 
secesh  military  prisons,  narrowly  escaping  with  life,  from  a  severe 
fever,  from  starvation  and  half-nakedness  in  the  winter.  (What  a 
history  that  5ist  New  York  had!  Went  out  early —  march' d, 
fought  everywhere  —  was  in  storms  at  sea,  nearly  wreck' d  —  storm' d 

forts tramp' d  hither  and  yon  in  Virginia,  night  and  day,  summer  of 

'62 afterwards  Kentucky  and  Mississippi  —  re-enlisted  —  was  in  all 

the  engagements  and  campaigns,  as  above.)  I  strengthen  and  comfort 
myself  much  with  the  certainty  that  the  capacity  for  just  such  regiments, 
(hundreds,  thousands  of  them)  is  inexhaustible  in  the  United  States, 
and  that  there  isn't  a  county  nor  a  township  in  the  republic  —  nor  a 
street  in  any  city  —  but  could  turn  out,  and,  on  occasion,  would  turn 
out,  lots  of  just  such  typical  soldiers,  whenever  wanted. 

"  CONVULSIVE-  As  I  have  look'd  over  the  proof-sheets  of 

NESS"  the  preceding  pages,  I  have  once  or  twice 

fear'd  that  my  diary  would  prove,  at  best, 

but  a  batch  of  convulsively  written  reminiscences.  Well,  be  it  so. 
They  are  but  parts  of  the  actual  distraction,  heat,  smoke  and  excite- 
ment  of  those  times.  The  war  itself,  with  the  temper  of  society 
preceding  it,  can  indeed  be  best  described  by  that  very  word  convul-. 
sjv&uss. 

THREE  YEARS  During    those    three    years    in    hospital, 

SUMM'D  UP  camp  or  field,  I  made  over  six  hundred 

visits  or  tours,   and  went,   as  I  estimate, 
counting  all,  among  from  eighty  thousand  to  a  hundred  thousand  of 


72  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  wounded  and  sick,  as  sustainer  of  spirit  and  body  in  some  degree, 
in  time  of  need.  These  visits  varied  from  an  hour  or  two,  to  all  day 
or  night ;  for  with  dear  or  critical  cases  I  generally  watch' d  all  night. 
Sometimes  I  took  up  my  quarters  in  the  hospital,  and  slept  or 
watch' d  there  several  nights  in  succession.  Those  three  years  I 
consider  the  greatest  privilege  and  satisfaction,  (with  all  their  feverish 
excitements  and  physical  deprivations  and  lamentable  sights,)  and, 
of  course,  the  most  profound  lesson  of  my  life.  I  can  say  that  in 
my  ministerings  I  comprehended  all,  whoever  came  in  my  way, 
northern  or  southern,  and  slighted  none.  It  arous'd  and  brought 
out  and  decided  undream'd-of  depths  of  emotion.  It  has  given  me 
my  most  fervent  views  of  the  true  ensemble  and  extent  of  the  States. 
While  I  was  with  wounded  and  sick  in  thousands  of  cases  from  the 
New  England  States,  and  from  New  York,  New  Jersey,  and  Penn 
sylvania,  and  from  Michigan,  Wisconsin,  Ohio,  Indiana,  Illinois, 
and  all  the  Western  States,  I  was  with  more  or  less  from  all  the 
States,  North  and  South,  without  exception.  I  was  with  many 
from  the  border  States,  especially  from  Maryland  and  Virginia,  and 
found,  during  those  lurid  years  1862-63,  far  more  Union  southerners, 
especially  Tennesseans,  than  is  supposed.  I  was  with  many  rebel 
officers  and  men  among  our  wounded,  and  gave  them  always  what  I 
had,  and  tried  to  cheer  them  the  same  as  any.  I  was  among  the 
army  teamsters  considerably,  and,  indeed,  always  found  myself  drawn 
to  them.  Among  the  black  soldiers,  wounded  or  sick,  and  in  the 
contraband  camps,  I  also  took  my  way  whenever  in  their  neighbor 
hood,  and  did  what  I  could  for  them. 

THE  MILLION  The  dead  in    this    war  —  there   they  lie, 

DEAD,   TOO,  strewing  the  fields  and  woods  and  valleys 

SUMM'D  UP  and  battle-fields  of  the  south  —  Virginia, 

the  Peninsula —  Malvern  hill  and  Fair  Oaks 

—  the  banks  of  the  Chickahominy  —  the  terraces  of  Fredericksburgh  — 
Antietam  bridge  —  the  grisly  ravines  of  Manassas  —  the  bloody  prome 
nade  of  the  Wilderness  —  the  varieties  of  the  strayed  dead,  (the 
estimate  of  the  War  department  is  25,000  national  soldiers  kilPd  in 
battle  and  never  buried  at  all,  5,000  drown' d —  15,000  inhumed  by 
strangers,  or  on  the  march  in  haste,  in  hitherto  unfound  localities  — 
2,000  graves  cover' d  by  sand  and  mud  by  Mississippi  freshets,  3,000 
carried  away  by  caving-in  of  banks,  &c.,) —  Gettysburgh,  the  West, 
Southwest  —  Vicksburgh  —  Chattanooga  —  the  trenches  of  Petersburgh 
—  the  numberless  battles,  camps,  hospitals  everywhere  —  the  crop 
reap'd  by  the  mighty  reapers,  typhoid,  dysentery,  inflammations  —  and 
blackest  and  loathesomest  of  all,  the  dead  and  living  burial-pits,  the 
prison-pens  of  Andersonville,  Salisbury,  Belle-Isle,  &c.,  (not  Dante's 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  73 

pictured  hell  and  all  its  woes,  its  degradations,  filthy  torments,  excel!' d 
those  prisons)  —  the  dead,  the  dead,  the  dead  —  our  dead  —  or  South 
or  North,  ours  all,  (all,  all,  all,  finally  dear  to  me)  — or  East  or  West  ' 

Atlantic    coast    or    Mississippi    valley  —  somewhere    they    crawl' d 

to  die,  alone,  in  bushes,  low  gullies,  or  on  the  sides  of  hills  —  (there, 
in  secluded  spots,  their  skeletons,  bleach' d  bones,  tufts  of  hair,  buttons, 
fragments  of  clothing,  are  occasionally  found  yet)  —  our  young  men 
once  so  handsome  and  so  joyous,  taken  from  us  —  the  son  from 
the  mother,  the  husband  from  the  wife,  the  dear  friend  from  the 
dear  friend — the  clusters  of  camp  graves,  in  Georgia,  the  Carolinas, 
and  in  Tennessee  —  the  single  graves  left  in  the  woods  or  by  the  road 
side,  (hundreds,  thousands,  obliterated)  —  the  corpses  floated  down  the 
rivers,  and  caught  and  lodged,  (dozens,  scores,  floated  down  the  upper 
Potomac,  after  the  cavalry  engagements,  the  pursuit  of  Lee,  following 
Getty sburgh)  —  some  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  —  the  general  million, 
and  the  special  cemeteries  in  almost  all  the  States  —  the  infinite  dead  — 
(the  land  entire  saturated,  perfumed  with  their  impalpable  ashes' 
exhalation  in  Nature's  chemistry  distill' d,  and  shall  be  so  forever,  in 
every  future  grain  of  wheat  and  ear  of  corn,  and  every  flower  that 
grows,  and  every  breath  we  draw)  — not  only  Northern  dead  leaven 
ing  Southern  soil  —  thousands,  aye  tens  of  thousands,  of  Southerners, 
crumble  to-day  in  Northern  earth. 

And  everywhere  among  these  countless  graves  —  everywhere  in  the 
many  soldier  Cemeteries  of  the  Nation,  (there  are  now,  I  believe, 
over  seventy  of  them)  —  as  at  the  time  in  the  vast  trenches,  the  depos 
itories  of  slain,  Northern  and  Southern,  after  the  great  battles  —  not 
only  where  the  scathing  trail  passed  those  years,  but  radiating  since  in 
all  the  peaceful  quarters  of  the  land  —  we  see,  and  ages  yet  may  see, 
on  monuments  and  gravestones,  singly  or  in  masses,  to  thousands 
or  tens  of  thousands,  the  significant  word  Unknown. 

(In  some  of  the  cemeteries  nearly  all  the  dead  are  unknown.  At 
Salisbury,  N.  C.,  for  instance,  the  known  are  only  85,  while  the  un 
known  are  12,027,  and  11,700  of  these  are  buried  in  trenches. 
A  national  monument  has  been  put  up  here,  by  order  of  Congress,  to 
mark  the  spot  —  but  what  visible,  material  monument  can  ever  fittingly 
commemorate  that  spot?) 

THE  REAL  WAR  And  so  good-bye  to  the  war.      I  know  not 

WILL  NEVER  GET  how  it  may  have  been,  or  may  be,  to 
IN  THE  BOOKS  others  —  to  me  the  main  interest  I  found, 

(and  still,   on  recollection,  find,)    in   the 

rank  and  file  of  the  armies,  both  sides,  and  in  those  specimens  amid  the   s 
hospitals,  and  even  the  dead  on  the  field.      To  me  the  points  illustrating 
the  latent  personal  character  and  eligibilities  of  these  States,  in  the  two 


74  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

or  three  millions  of  American  young  and  middle-aged  men,  North  and 
South,  embodied  in  those  armies  —  and  especially  the  one-third  or 
one-fourth  of  their  number,  stricken  by  wounds  or  disease  at  some 
time  in  the  course  of  the  contest  —  were  of  more  significance  even 
than  the  political  interests  involved.  (As  so  much  of  a  race  depends 
on  how  it  faces  death,  and  how  it  stands  personal  anguish  and  sickness. 
As,  in  the  glints  of  emotions  under  emergencies,  and  the  indirect  traits 
and  asides  in  Plutarch,  we  get  far  profounder  clues  to  the  antique 
world  than  all  its  more  formal  history.) 

Future  years  will  never  know  the  seething  hell  and  the  black  in 
fernal  background  of  countless  minor  scenes  and  interiors,  (not  the 
official  surface-courteousness  of  the  Generals,  not  the  few  great  battles) 
of  the  Secession  war  ;  and  it  is  best  they  should  not  —  the  real  war 
will  never  get  in  the  books.  In  the  mushy  influences  of  current 
times,  too,  the  fervid  atmosphere  and  typical  events  of  those  years  are 
in  danger  of  being  totally  forgotten.  I  have  at  night  watch' d  by  the 
side  of  a  sick  man  in  the  hospital,  one  who  could  not  live  many  hours. 
I  have  seen  his  eyes  flash  and  burn  as  he  raised  himself  and  recurr'd  to 
the  cruelties  on  his  surrendered  brother,  and  mutilations  of  the  corpse 
afterward.  (See  in  the  preceding  pages,  the  incident  at  Upperville  — 
the  seventeen  kill'd  as  in  the  description,  were  left  there  on  the  ground. 
After  they  dropt  dead,  no  one  touch' d  them  —  all  were  made  sure  of, 
however.  The  carcasses  were  left  for  the  citizens  to  bury  or  not,  as 
they  chose.) 

Such  was  the  war.  It  was  not  a  quadrille  in  a  ball-room.  Its  in 
terior  history  will  not  only  never  be  written  —  its  practicality,  minutiae 
of  deeds  and  passions,  will  never  be  even  suggested.  The  actual 
soldier  of  1862 -'6 5,  North  and  South,  with  all  his  ways,  his  in 
credible  dauntlessness,  habits,  practices,  tastes,  language,  his  fierce 
friendship,  his  appetite,  rankness,  his  superb  strength  and  animality, 
lawless  gait,  and  a  hundred  unnamed  lights  and  shades  of  camp,  I  say, 
will  never  be  written  —  perhaps  must  not  and  should  not  be. 

The  preceding  notes  may  furnish  a  few  stray  glimpses  into  that  life, 
and  into  those  lurid  interiors,  never  to  be  fully  convey 'd  to  the  future. 
The  hospital  part  of  the  drama  from  '61  to  '65,  deserves  indeed  to  be 
recorded.  Of  that  many-threaded  drama,  with  its  sudden  and  strange 
surprises,  its  confounding  of  prophecies,  its  moments  of  despair,  the 
dread  of  foreign  interference,  the  interminable  campaigns,  the  bloody 
battles,  the  mighty  and  cumbrous  and  green  armies,  the  drafts  and 
bounties  —  the  immense  money  expenditure,  like  a  heavy-pouring  con 
stant  rain  —  with,  over  the  whole  land,  the  last  three  years  of  the 
struggle,  an  unending,  universal  mourning-wail  of  women,  parents,  or 
phans  —  the  marrow  of  the  tragedy  concentrated  in  those  Army  Hos 
pitals —  (it  seem'd  sometimes  as  if  the  whole  interest  of  the  land, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  75 

North  and  South,  was  one  vast  central  hospital,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 

affair  but  flanges) those  forming  the  untold  and  unwritten  history  of 

he  war  —  infinitely  greater  (like  life's)  than  the  few  scraps  and  dis- 
ortions  that  are  ever  told  or  written.  Think  how  much,  and  of  im 
portance,  will  be— how  much,  civic  and  military,  has  already  been- 
mried  in  the  grave,  in  eternal  darkness. 

AN  INTERREGNUM    Several  years  now  elapse  before  I  resume  my 
PARAGRAPH  diary.      I  continued  at  Washington  work 

ing  in  the  Attorney-General's  department 

through  '66  and  '67,  and  some  time  afterward.  In  February  '73  I 
was  stricken  down  by  paralysis,  gave  up  my  desk,  and  migrated  to 
Camden,  New  Jersey,  where  I  lived  during  '74  and  '75,  quite  unwell 
—  but  after  that  began  to  grow  better  ;  commenc'd  going  for  weeks 
at  a  time,  even  for  months,  down  in  the  country,  to  a  charmingly  re 
cluse  and  rural  spot  along  Timber  creek,  twelve  or  thirteen  miles  from 
where  it  enters  the  Delaware  river.  Domicil'd  at  the  farm-house  of 
my  friends,  the  Staffords,  near  by,  I  lived  half  the  time  along  this  creek 
and  its  adjacent  fields  and  lanes.  And  it  is  to  my  life  here  that  I,  per 
haps,  owe  partial  recovery  (a  sort  of  second  wind,  or  semi-renewal  of 
the  lease  of  life)  from  the  prostration  of  i874-'75-  If  the  notes  of 
that  outdoor  life  could  only  prove  as  glowing  to  you,  reader  dear,  as 
the  experience  itself  was  to  me.  Doubtless  in  the  course  of  the  fol 
lowing,  the  fact  of  invalidism  will  crop  out,  (I  call  myself  a  half-Para 
lytic  these  days,  and  reverently  bless  the  Lord  it  is  no  worse,)  be 
tween  some  of  the  lines  — but  I  get  my  share  of  fun  and  healthy  hours, 
and  shall  try  to  indicate  them.  (The  trick  is,  I  find,  to  tone  your 
wants  and  tastes  low  down  enough,  and  make  much  of  negatives,  and 
of  mere  daylight  and  the  skies. ) 

NEW  THEMES  EN-  1876,  "77-— l  find  the  woods  in  mld' 
TERED  UPON  May  and  early  June  my  best  places  for 

composition.*     Seated  on  logs  or   stumps 

there,  or  resting  on  rails,  nearly  all  the  following  memoranda  have 
been  jotted  down.  Wherever  I  go,  indeed,  winter  or  summer, 
city  or  country,  alone  at  home  or  traveling,  I  must  take  notes — (the 
ruling  passion  strong  in  age  and  disablement,  and  even  the  approach  of 

*  Without  apology  for  the  abrupt  change  of  field  and  atmosphere  —  after 
what  I  have  put  in  the  preceding  fifty  or  sixty  pages— temporary  episodes, 
thank  heaven  !  —  I  restore  my  book  to  the  bracing  and  buoyant  equilibrium 
of  concrete  outdoor  Nature,  the  only  permanent  reliance  for  sanity  of  book 
or  human  life. 

Who  knows,  (I  have  it  in  my  fancy,  my  ambition,)  but  the  pages  now 
ensuing  may  carry  ray  of  sun,  or  smell  of  grass  or  corn,  or  call  of  bird,  or 


76  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

—  but  I  must  not  say  it  yet.)  Then  underneath  the  following 
excerpta  —  crossing  the  f  s  and  dotting  the  fs  of  certain  moderate 
movements  of  late  years  —  I  am  fain  to  fancy  the  foundations  of  quite 
a  lesson  learn' d.  After  you  have  exhausted  what  there  is  in  busi 
ness,  politics,  conviviality,  love,  and  so  on  —  have  found  that  none  of 
these  finally  satisfy,  or  permanently  wear  —  what  remains  ?  Nature 
remains ;  to  bring  out  from  their  torpid  recesses,  the  affinities  of  a 
man  or  woman  with  the  open  air,  the  trees,  fields,  the  changes  of 
seasons  —  the  sun  by  day  and  the  stars  of  heaven  by  night.  We  will 
begin  from  these  convictions.  Literature  flies  so  high  and  is  so  hotly 
spiced,  that  our  notes  may  seem  hardly  more  than  breaths  of  common 
air,  or  draughts  of  water  to  drink.  But  that  is  part  of  our  lesson. 

Dear,  soothing,  healthy,  restoration-hours  —  after  three  confining 
years  of  paralysis  —  after  the  long  strain  of  the  war,  and  its  wounds 
and  death. 

ENTERING  A  As  every  man  has  his  hobby-liking,  mine  is 

LONG  FARM-LANE      for  a  real  farm-lane  fenced  by  old  chestnut- 
rails  gray-green  with  dabs    of  moss    and 

lichen,  copious  weeds  and  briers  growing  in  spots  athwart  the  heaps  of 
stray-pick' d  stones  at  the  fence  bases  —  irregular  paths  worn  between, 
and  horse  and  cow  tracks  —  all  characteristic  accompaniments  marking 
and  scenting  the  neighborhood  in  their  seasons  —  apple-tree  blossoms  in 
forward  April  —  pigs,  poultry,  a  field  of  August  buckwheat,  and  in  an 
other  the  long  flapping  tassels  of  maize  —  and  so  to  the  pond,  the  ex 
pansion  of  the  creek,  the  secluded-beautiful,  with  young  and  old  trees, 
and  such  recesses  and  vistas. 

TO  THE  SPRING  So,  still  sauntering  on,  to  the  spring  under 

AND  BROOK  the    willows  —  musical    as    soft    clinking 

glasses — pouring   a  sizeable  stream,  thick 

as  my  neck,  pure  and  clear,  out  from  its  vent  where  the  bank  arches 
over  like  a  great  brown  shaggy  eyebrow  or  mouth-roof —  gurgling,  gur 
gling  ceaselessly — meaning,  saying  something,  of  course  (if  one  could 
only  translate  it)  — always  gurgling  there,  the  whole  year  through  — 
never  giving  out  —  oceans  of  mint,  blackberries  in  summer  —  choice  of 
light  and  shade — just  the  place  for  my  July  sun-baths  and  water-baths 
too  —  but  mainly  the  inimitable  soft  sound-gurgles  of  it,  as  I  sit  there 
hot  afternoons.  How  they  and  all  grow  into  me,  day  after  day  —  every- 

gleam  of  stars  by  night,  or  snow-flakes  falling  fresh  and  mystic,  to  denizen 
of  heated  city  house,  or  tired  workman  or  workwoman  ?  —  or  may-be  in 
sick-room  or  prison  —  to  serve  as  cooling  breeze,  or  Nature's  aroma,  to 
some  fever' d  mouth  or  latent  pulse. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  77 

thing  in  keeping  —  the  wild,  just-palpable  perfume,  and  the  dappled 
leaf-shadows,  and  all  the  natural-medicinal,  elemental-moral  influences 

of  the  spot. 

Babble  on,  O  brook,  with  that  utterance  of  thine  !  I  too  will  express 
what  I  have  gather' d  in  my  days  and  progress,  native,  subterranean, 

past and  now  thee.      Spin  and  wind  thy  way  —  I  with  thee,  a  little 

while,  at  any  rate.  As  I  haunt  thee  so  often,  season  by  season,  thou 
knowest,  reckest  not  me,  (yet  why  be  so  certain?  who  can  tell?)— but 
I  will  learn  from  thee,  and  dwell  on  thee— receive,  copy,  print  from 
thee. 

AN  EARLY  SUM-  Away  then  to  loosen,  to  unstring  the  divine 

MER   REVEILLE  bow,  so  tense,  so  long.      Away,  from  cur 

tain,  carpet,  sofa,  book — from  "  society  " 

from  city  house,  street,  and  modern  improvements  and  luxuries  — 

away  to  the  primitive  winding,  aforementioned  wooded  creek,  with  its 
untrimm'd  bushes  and  turfy  banks  —  away  from  ligatures,  tight  boots, 
buttons,  and  the  whole  cast-iron  civilized  life — from  entourage  of  arti 
ficial  store,  machine,  studio,  office,  parlor  —  from  tailordom  and  fashion's 

clothes from  any  clothes,  perhaps,  for  the  nonce,  the   summer  heats 

advancing,  there  in  those  watery,  shaded  solitudes.  Away,  thou  soul, 
(let  me  pick  thee  out  singly,  reader  dear,  and  talk  in  perfect  freedom, 
negligently,  confidentially,)  for  one  day  and  night  at  least,  returning  to 
the  naked  source-life  of  us  all  —  to  the  breast  of  the  great  silent  savage 
all-acceptive  Mother.  Alas !  how  many  of  us  are  so  sodden  —  how 
many  have  wander' d  so  far  away,  that  return  is  almost  impossible. 

But  to  my  jottings,  taking  them  as  they  come,  from  the  heap,  with 
out  particular  selection.  There  is  little  consecutiveness  in  dates.  They 
run  any  time  within  nearly  five  or  six  years.  Each  was  carelessly 
pencilled  in  the  open  air,  at  the  time  and  place.  The  printers  will  learn 
this  to  some  vexation  perhaps,  as  much  of  their  copy  is  from  those 
hastily-written  first  notes. 

BIRDS  MIGRATING  Did  you  ever  chance  to  hear  the  midnight 
AT  MIDNIGHT  flight  of  birds  passing  through  the  air  and 

darkness    overhead,    in    countless    armies, 

changing  their  early  or  late  summer  habitat  ?  It  is  something  not  to 
be  forgotten.  A  friend  called  me  up  just  after  I  2  last  night  to  mark 
the  peculiar  noise  of  unusually  immense  flocks  migrating  north  (rather 
late  this  year.)  In  the  silence,  shadow  and  delicious  odor  of  the  hour, 
(the  natural  perfume  belonging  to  the  night  alone,)  I  thought  it  rare 
music.  You  could  bear  the  characteristic  motion  —  once  or  twice 
"the  rush  of  mighty  wings,"  but  often  a  velvety  rustle,  long  drawn 
out sometimes  quite  near  —  with  continual  calls  and  chirps,  and 


78  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

some  song-notes.  It  all  lasted  from  12  till  after  3.  Once  in  a  while 
the  species  was  plainly  distinguishable ;  I  could  make  out  the  bobolink, 
tanager,  Wilson's  thrush,  white-crown' d  sparrow,  and  occasionally 
from  high  in  the  air  came  the  notes  of  the  plover. 

BUMBLE-BEES  May-month  —  month  of  swarming,  sing 

ing,  mating  birds  —  the  bumble-bee  month 

—  month  of  the  flowering  lilac —  (and  then  my  own  birth-month.) 
As  I  jot  this  paragraph,  I  am  out  just  after  sunrise,  and  down  towards 
the  creek.      The   lights,  perfumes,   melodies  —  the  blue  birds,  grass 
birds  and  robins,  in  every  direction  —  the  noisy,  vocal,  natural  concert. 
For  undertones,  a  neighboring  wood-pecker  tapping  his  tree,  and  the 
distant  clarion  of  chanticleer.      Then  the  fresh-earth  smells — the  colors, 
the  delicate  drabs  and  thin  blues  of  the  perspective.      The  bright  green  of 
the  grass  has  receiv'd  an  added  tinge  from  the  last  two  days'  mildness 
and  moisture.      How  the  sun  silently  mounts  in  the  broad  clear  sky,  on 
his  day's  journey!      How  the  warm  beams  bathe  all,  and  come  stream 
ing  kissingly  and  almost  hot  on  my  face. 

A  while  since  the  croaking  of  the  pond-frogs  and  the  first  white 
of  the  dog-wood  blossoms.  Now  the  golden  dandelions  in  endless 
profusion,  spotting  the  ground  everywhere.  The  white  cherry  and 
pear-blows  —  the  wild  violets,  with  their  blue  eyes  looking  up  and 
saluting  my  feet,  as  I  saunter  the  wood-edge  —  the  rosy  blush  of 
budding  apple-trees  —  the  light-clear  emerald  hue  of  the  wheat-fields 
—  the  darker  green  of  the  rye — a  warm  elasticity  pervading  the  air 

—  the  cedar-bushes  profusely  deck'd  with  their  little  brown  apples  — 
the  summer  fully  awakening  —  the  convocation  of  black  birds,  garru 
lous  flocks  of  them,  gathering   on  some  tree,  and  making   the  hour 
and  place  noisy  as  I  sit  near. 

Later.  —  Nature  marches  in  procession,  in  sections,  like  the  corps 
of  an  army.  All  have  done  much  for  me,  and  still  do.  But  for  the 
last  two  days  it  has  been  the  great  wild  bee,  the  humble-bee,  or 
"bumble,"  as  the  children  call  him.  As  I  walk,  or  hobble,  from 
the  farm-house  down  to  the  creek,  I  traverse  the  before-mention'd 
lane,  fenced  by  old  rails,  with  many  splits,  splinters,  breaks,  holes, 
&c.,  the  choice  habitat  of  those  crooning,  hairy  insects.  Up  and 
down  and  by  and  between  these  rails,  they  swarm  and  dart  and  fly  in 
countless  myriads.  As  I  wend  slowly  along,  I  am  often  accom 
panied  with  a  moving  cloud  of  them.  They  play  a  leading  part  in 
my  morning,  midday  or  sunset  rambles,  and  often  dominate  the 
landscape  in  a  way  I  never  before  thought  of — fill  the  long  lane, 
not  by  scores  or  hundreds  only,  but  by  thousands.  Large  and  viva 
cious  and  swift,  with  wonderful  momentum  and  a  loud  swelling,  per 
petual  hum,  varied  now  and  then  by  something  almost  like  a  shriek, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  79 

they  dart  to  and  fro,  in  rapid  flashes,  chasing  each  other,  and  (little 
things  as  they  are,)  conveying  to  me  a  new  and  pronounc'd  sense  of 
strength,  beauty,  vitality  and  movement.  Are  they  in  their  mating 
season  ?  or  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  plenitude,  swiftness,  eager 
ness,  display  ?  As  I  walk'd,  I  thought  I  was  folio w'd  by  a  particular 
swarm,  but  upon  observation  I  saw  that  it  was  a  rapid  succession  of 
changing  swarms,  one  after  another. 

As  I  write,  I  am  seated  under  a  big  wild-cherry  tree  —  the  warm 
day  temper' d  by  partial  clouds  and  a  fresh  breeze,  neither  too  heavy 
nor  light  —  and  here  I  sit  Jong  and  long,  envelop' d  in  the  deep 
musical  drone  of  these  bees,  flitting,  balancing,  darting  to  and  fro 
about  me  by  hundreds  —  big  fellows  with  light  yellow  jackets,  great 
glistening  swelling  bodies,  stumpy  heads  and  gauzy  wings  —  humming 
their  perpetual  rich  mellow  boom.  (Is  there  not  a  hint  in  it  for  a 
musical  composition,  of  which  it  should  be  the  back-ground  ?  some 
bumble-bee  symphony  ?)  How  it  all  nourishes,  lulls  me,  in  the 
way  most  needed  ;  the  open  air,  the  rye-fields,  the  apple  orchards. 
The  last  two  days  have  been  faultless  in  sun,  breeze,  temperature 
and  everything  ;  never  two  more  perfect  days,  and  I  have  enjoy'd 
them  wonderfully.  My  health  is  somewhat  better,  and  my  spirit  at 
peace.  (Yet  the  anniversary  of  the  saddest  loss  and  sorrow  of  my 
life  is  close  at  hand.) 

Another  jotting,  another  perfect  day  :  forenoon,  from  7  to  9,  two 
hours  envelop'd  in  sound  of  bumble-bees  and  bird-music.  Down  in 
the  apple-trees  and  in  a  neighboring  cedar  were  three  or  four  russet- 
back' d  thrushes,  each  singing  his  best,  and  roulading  in  ways  I  never 
heard  surpass'd.  Two  hours  I  abandon  myself  to  hearing  them,  and 
indolently  absorbing  the  scene.  Almost  every  bird  I  notice  has  a 
special  time  in  the  year  —  sometimes  limited  to  a  few  days  —  when 
it  sings  its  best ;  and  now  is  the  period  of  these  russet-backs.  Mean 
while,  up  and  down  the  lane,  the  darting,  droning,  musical  bumble 
bees.  A  great  swarm  again  for  my  entourage  as  I  return  home, 
moving  along  with  me  as  before. 

As  I  write  this,  two  or  three  weeks  later,  I  am  sitting  near  the 
brook  under  a  tulip  tree,  70  feet  high,  thick  with  the  fresh  verdure 
of  its  young  maturity  — a  beautiful  object  —  every  branch,  every  leaf 
perfect.  From  top  to  bottom,  seeking  the  sweet  juice  in  the  blos 
soms,  it  swarms  with  myriads  of  these  wild  bees,  whose  loud  and 
steady  humming  makes  an  undertone  to  the  whole,  and  to  my  mood 
and  the  hour.  All  of  which  I  will  bring  to  a  close  by  extracting  the 
following  verses  from  Henry  A.  Beers' s  little  volume  : 

As  I  lay  yonder  in  tall  grass 
A  drunken  bumble-bee  went  past 
Delirious  with  honey  toddy. 
7 


8o  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

The  golden  sash  about  his  body 

Scarce  kept  it  in  his  swollen  belly 

Distent  with  honeysuckle  jelly. 

Rose  liquor  and  the  sweet-pea  wine 

Had  fill'  d  his  soul  with  song  divine  ; 

Deep  had  he  drunk  the  warm  night  through, 

His  hairy  thighs  were  wet  with  dew. 

Full  many  an  antic  he  had  play'd 

While  the  world  went  round  through  sleep  and  shade. 

Oft  had  he  lit  with  thirsty  lip 

Some  flower-cup's  nectar' d  sweets  to  sip, 

When  on  smooth  petals  he  would  slip, 

Or  over  tangled  stamens  trip, 

And  headlong  in  the  pollen  roll'd, 

Crawl  out  quite  dusted  o'er  with  gold  ; 

Or  else  his  heavy  feet  would  stumble 

Against  some  bud,  and  down  he'd  tumble 

Amongst  the  grass  j  there  lie  and  grumble 

In  low,  soft  bass- — poor  maudlin  bumble! 

CEDAR- APPLES  As  I  journey 'd   to-day  in  a  light  wagon 

ten  or  twelve  miles  through  the  country, 

nothing  pleas' d  me  more,  in  their  homely  beauty  and  novelty  (I  had 
either  never  seen  the  little  things  to  such  advantage,  or  had  never 
noticed  them  before)  than  that  peculiar  fruit,  with  its  profuse  clear- 
yellow  dangles  of  inch-long  silk  or  yarn,  in  boundless  profusion  spot 
ting  the  dark  green  cedar  bushes  —  contrasting  well  with  their  bronze 
tufts  —  the  flossy  shreds  covering  the  knobs  all  over,  like  a  shock  of 
wild  hair  on  elfin  pates.  On  my  ramble  afterward  down  by  the 
creek  I  pluck*  d  one  from  its  bush,  and  shall  keep  it.  These  cedar- 
apples  last  only  a  little  while  however,  and  soon  crumble  and  fade. 

SUMMER    SIGHTS          June  iotb.—As  I  write,  5^  P.M.,  here 

AND    INDOLENCIES     by  the  creek,  nothing  can  exceed  the  quiet 

splendor  and  freshness  around  me.      We 

had  a  heavy  shower,  with  brief  thunder  and  lightning,  in  the  middle 
of  the  day;  and  since,  overhead,  one  of  those  not  uncommon  yet  in 
describable  skies  (in  quality,  not  details  or  forms)  of  limpid  blue,  with 
rolling  silver-fringed  clouds,  and  a  pure-dazzling  sun.  For  underlay, 
trees  in  fulness  of  tender  foliage  —  liquid,  reedy,  long-drawn  notes  of 
birds  —  based  by  the  fretful  mewing  of  a  querulous  cat-bird,  and  the 
pleasant  chippering-shriek  of  two  kingfishers.  I  have  been  watching 
the  latter  the  last  half  hour,  on  their  regular  evening  frolic  over  and  in 
the  stream;  evidently  a  spree  of  the  liveliest  kind.  They  pursue  each 
other,  whirling  and  wheeling  around,  with  many  a  jocund  downward 
dip,  splashing  the  spray  in  jets  of  diamonds  —  and  then  off"  they  swoop, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  81 

with  slanting  wings  and  graceful  flight,  sometimes  so  near  me  I  can 
plainly  see  their  dark-gray  feather-bodies  and  milk-white  necks. 

SUNDOWN    PER-  June   iytbt   4  to  6%,   P.  M.  —  Sitting 

FUME  — QUAIL-  alone    by  the   creek  —  solitude  here,   but 

NOTES  —  THE  the  scene  bright  and  vivid  enough  —  the 

HERMIT-THRUSH         sun  shining,  and  quite  a  fresh  wind  blow 
ing  (some  heavy  showers  last  night,)  the 

grass  and  trees  looking  their  best  —  the  clare-obscure  of  different 
greens,  shadows,  half-shadows,  and  the  dappling  glimpses  of  the 
water,  through  recesses  —  the  wild  flageolet-note  of  a  quail  near  by  — 
the  just-heard  fretting  of  some  hylas  down  there  in  the  pond  —  crows 
cawing  in  the  distance  —  a  drove  of  young  hogs  rooting  in  soft  ground 
near  the  oak  under  which  I  sit  —  some  come  sniffing  near  me,  and 
then  scamper  away,  with  grunts.  And  still  the  clear  notes  of  the 
quail  —  the  quiver  of  leaf-shadows  over  the  paper  as  I  write  —  the 
sky  aloft,  with  white  clouds,  and  the  sun  well  declining  to  the  west  — 
the  swift  darting  of  many  sand-swallows  coming  and  going,  their 
loles  in  a  neighboring  marl-bank  —  the  odor  of  the  cedar  and  oak, 
so  palpable,  as  evening  approaches  —  perfume,  color,  the  bronze-and- 
jold  of  nearly  ripen' d  wheat  —  clover-fields,  with  honey-scent  —  the 
well-up  maize,  with  long  and  rustling  leaves  —  the  great  patches  of 
thriving  potatoes,  dusky  green,  fleck* d  all  over  with  white  blossoms  — 
the  old,  warty,  venerable  oak  above  me  —  and  ever,  mix'd  with  the 
dual  notes  of  the  quail,  the  soughing  of  the  wind  through  some  near-by 
pines. 

As  I  rise  for  return,  I  linger  long  to  a  delicious  song-epilogue  (is  it 
the  hermit-thrush  ?)  from  some  bushy  recess  off  there  in  the  swamp, 
repeated  leisurely  and  pensively  over  and  over  again.  This,  to  the 
circle-gambols  of  the  swallows  flying  by  dozens  in  concentric  rings  in 
the  last  rays  of  sunset,  like  flashes  of  some  airy  wheel. 

A   JULY   AFTER-  The  fervent  heat,  but  so  much  more  en- 

NOON    BY    THE  durable  in  this  pure  air  —  the  white  and 

POND  pink    pond -blossoms,    with    great    heart- 

shaped  leaves;  the  glassy  waters  of  the 
creek,  the  banks,  with  dense  bushery,  and  the  picturesque  beeches 
ind  shade  and  turf;  the  tremulous,  reedy  call  of  some  bird  from  re 
cesses,  breaking  the  warm,  indolent,  half-voluptuous  silence;  an  occa 
sional  wasp,  hornet,  honey-bee  or  bumble  (they  hover  near  my  hands 
or  face,  yet  annoy  me  not,  nor  I  them,  as  they  appear  to  examine, 
find  nothing,  and  away  they  go)  — the  vast  space  of  the  sky  over 
head  so  clear,  and  the  buzzard  up  there  sailing  his  slow  whirl  in 
majestic  spirals  and  discs;  just  over  the  surface  of  the  pond,  two 


82  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

large  slate-color'd  dragon-flies,  with  wings  of  lace,  circling  and  dart 
ing  and  occasionally  balancing  themselves  quite  still,  their  wings 
quivering  all  the  time,  (are  they  not  showing  off  for  my  amusement  ?) 

—  the  pond  itself,  with  the  sword-shaped  calamus;  the  water  snakes  — 
occasionally  a  flitting  blackbird,  with  red  dabs  on  his  shoulders,  as  he 
darts  slantingly  by  —  the  sounds  that  bring  out  the  solitude,  warmth, 
light  and  shade  —  the  quawk  of  some  pond  duck  —  (the  crickets  and 
grasshoppers  are  mute  in  the  noon  heat,  but  I  hear  the  song  of  the  first 
cicadas;) — then  at  some  distance  the  rattle  and  whirr  of  a  reaping 
machine  as  the  horses  draw  it  on  a  rapid  walk  through  a  rye  field  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  creek  —  (what  was  the  yellow  or  light-brown 
bird,  large  as  a  young  hen,  with  short  neck  and  long-stretch' d  legs 
I  just  saw,  in  flapping  and  awkward  flight  over  there  through  the  trees  ?) 

—  the  prevailing  delicate,  yet  palpable,  spicy,  grassy,  clovery  perfume 
to  my  nostrils;  and  over  all,  encircling  all,  to  my  sight  and  soul,  the 
free  space  of  the  sky,  transparent  and  blue  —  and  hovering  there  in 
the  west,  a  mass  of  white-gray  fleecy  clouds  the  sailors  call  "  shoals 
of  mackerel  "  —  the  sky,  with  silver  swirls  like  locks  of  toss'd  hair, 
spreading,   expanding — a  vast   voiceless,   formless  simulacrum  —  yet 
may-be  the  most  real  reality  and  formulator    of  everything  —  who 
knows  ? 

LOCUSTS    AND  Aug.  22. —  Reedy  monotones  of  locust, 

KATYDIDS  or  sounds  of  katydid  —  I  hear  the  latter 

at  night,  and    the    other   both    day   and 

night.  1  thought  the  morning  and  evening  warble  of  birds  delight 
ful  ;  but  I  find  I  can  listen  to  these  strange  insects  with  just  as  much 
pleasure.  A  single  locust  is  now  heard  near  noon  from  a  tree  two 
hundred  feet  off,  as  I  write — a  long  whirring,  continued,  quite  loud 
noise  graded  in  distinct  whirls,  or  swinging  circles,  increasing  in 
strength  and  rapidity  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  then  a  fluttering, 
quietly  tapering  fall.  Each  strain  is  continued  from  one  to  two 
minutes.  The  locust-song  is  very  appropriate  to  the  scene  —  gushes, 
has  meaning,  is  masculine,  is  like  some  fine  old  wine,  not  sweet,  but 
far  better  than  sweet. 

But  the  katydid  —  how  shall  I  describe  its  piquant  utterances  ? 
One  sings  from  a  willow-tree  just  outside  my  open  bedroom  window, , 
twenty  yards  distant ;  every  clear  night  for  a  fortnight  past  has 
sooth' d  me  to  sleep.  I  rode  through  a  piece  of  woods  for  a  hundred 
rods  the  other  evening,  and  heard  the  katydids  by  myriads  —  very 
curious  for  once  ;  but  I  like  better  my  single  neighbor  on  the  tree. 

Let  me  say  more  about  the  song  of  the  locust,  even  to  repetition ; 
a  long,  chromatic,  tremulous  crescendo,  like  a  brass  disk  whirling 
round  and  round,  emitting  wave  after  wave  of  notes,  beginning  wit 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  83 

a  certain  moderate  beat  or  measure,  rapidly  increasing  in  speed  and 
emphasis,  reaching  a  point  of  great  energy  and  significance,  and  then 
quickly  and  gracefully  dropping  down  and  out.  Not  the  melody  of 
the  singing-bird  —  far  from  it;  the  common  musician  might  think 
without  melody,  but  surely  having  to  the  finer  ear  a  harmony  of  its 
own  ;  monotonous  —  but  what  a  swing  there  is  in  that  brassy  drone, 
round  and  round,  cymballine  —  or  like  the  whirling  of  brass  quoits. 

THE  LESSON  OF  A  Sept.  I. —  I  should  not  take  either  the 
T REE  biggest  or  the  most  picturesque  tree  to 

illustrate  it.      Here  is  one  of  my  favorites 

now  before  me,  a  fine  yellow  poplar,  quite  straight,  perhaps  90  feet 
high,  and  four  thick  at  the  butt.  How  strong,  vital,  enduring  ! 
how  dumbly  eloquent  !  What  suggestions  of  imperturbability  and 
being,  as  against  the  human  trait  of  mere  seeming.  Then  the  quali 
ties,  almost  emotional,  palpably  artistic,  heroic,  of  a  tree  ;  so  inno 
cent  and  harmless,  yet  so  savage.  It  is,  yet  says  nothing.  How  it 
rebukes  by  its  tough  and  equable  serenity  all  weathers,  this  gusty- 
temper' d  little  whiffet,  man,  that  runs  indoors  at  a  mite  of  rain  or 
snow.  Science  (or  rather  half-way  science)  scoffs  at  reminiscence 
of  dryad  and  hamadryad,  and  of  trees  speaking.  But,  if  they  don't, 
they  do  as  well  as  most  speaking,  writing,  poetry,  sermons  —  or 
rather  they  do  a  great  deal  better.  I  should  say  indeed  that  those 
old  dryad-reminiscences  are  quite  as  true  as  any,  and  profounder  than 
most  reminiscences  we  get.  ("Cut  this  out,"  as  the  quack  medi- 
ciners  say,  and  keep  by  you.)  Go  and  sit  in  a  grove  or  woods,  with 
one  or  more  of  those  voiceless  companions,  and  read  the  foregoing, 
and  think. 

One  lesson  from  affiliating  a  tree  —  perhaps  the  greatest  moral 
lesson  anyhow  from  earth,  rocks,  animals,  is  that  same  lesson  of  in 
herency,  of  what  is,  without  the  least  regard  to  what  the  looker-on 
(the  critic)  supposes  or  says,  or  whether  he  likes  or  dislikes.  What 
worse  —  what  more  general  malady  pervades  each  and  all  of  us,  our 
literature,  education,  attitude  toward  each  other,  (even  toward  our 
selves,)  than  a  morbid  trouble  about  seems,  (generally  temporarily 
seems  too,)  and  no  trouble  at  all,  or  hardly  any,  about  the  sane, 
slow-growing,  perennial,  real  parts  of  character,  books,  friendship, 
marriage  —  humanity's  invisible  foundations  and  hold-together?  (As 
the  all-basis,  the  nerve,  the  great-sympathetic,  the  plenum  within 
humanity,  giving  stamp  to  everything,  is  necessarily  invisible.) 

Aug.  4,  6  P.  M. —  Lights  and  shades  and  rare  effects  on  tree-foliage 
and  grass  —  transparent  greens,  grays,  &c.,  all  in  sunset  pomp  and 
dazzle.  The  clear  beams  are  now  thrown  in  many  new  places,  on 
the  quilted,  seam'd,  bronze-drab,  lower  tree-trunks,  shadow'd  except 


84  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

at  this  hour  —  now  flooding  their  young  and  old  columnar  rugged- 
ness  with  strong  light,  unfolding  to  my  sense  new  amazing  features 
of  silent,  shaggy  charm,  the  solid  bark,  the  expression  of  harmless 
impassiveness,  with  many  a  bulge  and  gnarl  unreck'd  before.  In  the 
revealings  of  such  light,  such  exceptional  hour,  such  mood,  one  does 
not  wonder  at  the  old  story  fables,  (indeed,  why  fables  ?)  of  people 
falling  into  love-sickness  with  trees,  seiz'd  extatic  with  the  mystic 
realism  of  the  resistless  silent  strength  in  them — strength,  which 
after  all  is  perhaps  the  last,  completest,  highest  beauty. 

Trees  I  am  familiar  with  here. 

Oaks,    (many   kinds  —  one  sturdy  Willows. 

old  fellow,  vital,  green,  bushy,  Catalpas. 

five  feet  thick  at  the  butt,  I  sit  Persimmons. 

under  every  day,)  Mountain-ash. 

Cedars  plenty.  Hickories. 

Tulip  trees,    (Liriodendron,)   is  of  Maples,  many  kinds. 

the    magnolia    family  —  I    have  Locusts. 

seen  it  in  Michigan  and  south-  Birches. 

ern  Illinois,    140  feet  high  and  Dogwood. 

8  feet  thick  at  the  butt  *  j  does  Pine. 

not  transplant  well  j  best  raisM  the  Elm. 

from     seeds  —  the     lumbermen  Chesnut. 

call  it  yellow  poplar.)  Linden. 

Sycamores.  Aspen. 

Gum  trees,  both  sweet  and  sour.  Spruce. 

Beeches.  Hornbeam. 

Black-walnuts.  Laurel. 

Sassafras.  Holly. 

AUTUMN    SIDE-  Sept.    20.  —  Under   an    old    black    oak, 

BITS  glossy  and  green,  exhaling  aroma  —  amid 

a  grove  the  Albic  druids  might  have  chosen 

—  envelop' d  in  the  warmth  and  light  of  the  noonday  sun,  and  swarms 

*  There  is  a  tulip  poplar  within  sight  of  Woodstown,  which  is  twenty 
feet  around,  three  feet  from  the  ground,  four  feet  across  about  eighteen  feet 
up  the  trunk,  which  is  broken  off  about  three  or  four  feet  higher  up.  On 
the  south  side  an  arm  has  shot  out  from  which  rise  two  stems,  each  to 
about  ninety-one  or  ninety-two  feet  from  the  ground.  Twenty-five  (or 
more)  years  since  the  cavity  in  the  butt  was  large  enough  for,  and  nine  men 
at  one  time,  ate  dinner  therein.  It  is  supposed  twelve  to  fifteen  men  could 
now,  at  one  time,  stand  within  its  trunk.  The  severe  winds  of  1877  and 
1878  did  not  seem  to  damage  it,  and  the  two  stems  send  out  yearly  many 
blossoms,  scenting  the  air  immediately  about  it  with  their  sweet  perfume. 
It  is  entirely  unprotected  by  other  trees,  on  a  hill.  —  Woodstown,  N.  J., 
"  Register,"  April  75,  '79. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  85 

of  flitting  insects  —  with  the  harsh  cawing  of  many  crows  a  hundred 
rods  away  —  here  I  sit  in  solitude,  absorbing,  enjoying  all.  The  corn, 
stack' d  in  its  cone-shaped  stacks,  russet-color' d  and  sere  —  a  large  field 
spotted  thick  with  scarlet-gold  pumpkins  —  an  adjoining  one  of  cab 
bages,  showing  well  in  their  green  and  pearl,  mottled  by  much  light 
and  shade  —  melon  patches,  with  their  bulging  ovals,  and  great  silver- 
streak' d,  ruffled,  broad-edged  leaves  —  and  many  an  autumn  sight  and 
sound  beside  —  the  distant  scream  of  a  flock  of  guinea-hens  —  and 
pour'd  over  all  the  September  breeze,  with  pensive  cadence  through 
the  tree  tops. 

Another  Day.  —  The  ground  in  all  directions  strew' d  with  debris 
from  a  storm.  Timber  creek,  as  I  slowly  pace  its  banks,  has  ebb'd 
low,  and  shows  reaction  from  the  turbulent  swell  of  the  late  equinoc 
tial.  As  Hook  around,  I  take  account  of  stock  —  weeds  and  shrubs, 
knolls,  paths,  occasional  stumps,  some  with  smooth' d  tops,  (several  I 
use  as  seats  of  rest,  from  place  to  place,  and  from  one  I  am  now  jotting 
these  lines,) — frequent  wild-flowers,  little  white,  star-shaped  things, 
or  the  cardinal  red  of  the  lobelia,  or  the  cherry-ball  seeds  of  the 
perennial  rose,  or  the  many-threaded  vines  winding  up  and  around 
trunks  of  trees. 

Oct.  iy  2  and  3.  — Down  every  day  in  the  solitude  of  the  creek. 
A  serene  autumn  sun  and  westerly  breeze  to-day  (3d)  as  I  sit  here, 
the  water  surface  prettily  moving  in  wind-ripples  before  me.  On  a 
stout  old  beech  at  the  edge,  decayed  and  slanting,  almost  fallen  to  the 
stream,  yet  with  life  and  leaves  in  its  mossy  limbs,  a  gray  squirrel, 
exploring,  runs  up  and  down,  flirts  his  tail,  leaps  to  the  ground,  sits 
on  his  haunches  upright  as  he  sees  me,  (a  Darwinian  hint  ?)  and  then 
races  up  the  tree  again. 

Oft.  4.— Cloudy  and  coolish  ;  signs  of  incipient  winter.  Yet 
pleasant  here,  the  leaves  thick-falling,  the  ground  brown  with  them 
already;  rich  coloring,  yellows  of  all  hues,  pale  and  dark-green, 
shades  from  lightest  to  richest  red  —  all  set  in  and  toned  down  by  the 
prevailing  brown  of  the  earth  and  gray  of  the  sky.  So,  winter  is 
coming;  and  I  yet  in  my  sickness.  I  sit  here  amid  all  these  fair 
sights  and  vital  influences,  and  abandon  myself  to  that  thought,  with 
its  wandering  trains  of  speculation. 

THE  SKY  — DAYS  Oct.    20.  —A    clear,    crispy   day  — dry 

AND  NIGHTS—  and  breezy  air,  full  of  oxygen.      Out  of 

HAPPINESS  the  sane,   silent,   beauteous  miracles  that 

envelope    and    fuse    me  —  trees,    water, 

grass,  sunlight,  and  early  frost  —  the  one  I  am  looking  at  most  to-day 
is  the  sky.  It  has  that  delicate,  transparent  blue,  peculiar  to  autumn, 
and  the  only  clouds  are  little  or  larger  white  ones,  giving  their  still 


86  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  spiritual  motion  to  the  great  concave.  All  through  the  earlier 
day  (say  from  7  to  1 1 )  it  keeps  a  pure,  yet  vivid  blue.  But  as  noon 
approaches  the  color  gets  lighter,  quite  gray  for  two  or  three  hours  — 
then  still  paler  for  a  spell,  till  sun-down  —  which  last  I  watch  daz 
zling  through  the  interstices  of  a  knoll  of  big  trees  —  darts  of  fire  and 
a  gorgeous  show  of  light-yellow,  liver-color  and  red,  with  a  vast  silver 
glaze  askant  on  the  water  —  the  transparent  shadows,  shafts,  sparkle, 
and  vivid  colors  beyond  all  the  paintings  ever  made. 

I  don't  know  what  or  how,  but  it  seems  to  me  mostly  owing  to 
these  skies,  (every  now  and  then  I  think,  while  I  have  of  course  seen 
them  every  day  of  my  life,  I  never  really  saw  the  skies  before,)  have 
had  this  autumn  some  wondrously  contented  hours  —  may  I  not  say 
perfectly  happy  ones?  As  I  have  read,  Byron  just  before  his  death 
told  a  friend  that  he  had  known  but  three  happy  hours  during  his 
whole  existence.  Then  there  is  the  old  German  legend  of  the  king's 
bell,  to  the  same  point.  While  I  was  out  there  by  the  wood,  that 
beautiful  sunset  through  the  trees,  I  thought  of  Byron's  and  the  bell 
story,  and  the  notion  started  in  me  that  I  was  having  a  happy  hour. 
(Though  perhaps  my  best  moments  I  never  jot  down;  when  they 
come  I  cannot  afford  to  break  the  charm  by  inditing  memoranda.  I 
just  abandon  myself  to  the  mood,  and  let  it  float  on,  carrying  me  in  its 
placid  extasy.) 

What  is  happiness,  anyhow  ?  Is  this  one  of  its  hours,  or  the  like  of 
it  ?  —  so  impalpable  —  a  mere  breath,  an  evanescent  tinge  ?  I  am  not 
sure  —  so  let  me  give  myself  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Hast  Thou, 
pellucid,  in  Thy  azure  depths,  medicine  for  case  like  mine  ?  (Ah, 
the  physical  shatter  and  troubled  spirit  of  me  the  last  three  years.) 
And  dost  Thou  subtly  mystically  now  drip  it  through  the  air  invisibly 
upon  me  ? 

Night  of  Oct.  28.  —  The  heavens  unusually  transparent  —  the 
stars  out  by  myriads  —  the  great  path  of  the  Milky  Way,  with  its 
branch,  only  seen  of  very  clear  nights  —  Jupiter,  setting  in  the  west, 
looks  like  a  huge  hap-hazard  splash,  and  has  a  little  star  for  companion. 

Clothed  in  his  white  garments, 

Into  the  round  and  clear  arena  slowly  entered  the  brahmin, 
Holding  a  little  child  by  the  hand, 

Like  the  moon  with  the  planet  Jupiter  in  a  cloudless  night-sky. 

Old  Hindu  Poem. 

Early  in  November.  —  At  its  farther  end  the  lane  already  described 
opens  into  a  broad  grassy  upland  field  of  over  twenty  acres,  slightly 
sloping  to  the  south.  Here  I  am  accustom' d  to  walk  for  sky  views 
and  effects,  either  morning  or  sundown.  To-day  from  this  field  my 
soul  is  calm'd  and  expanded  beyond  description,  the  whole  forenoon 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  87 

by  the  clear  blue  arching  over  all,  cloudless,  nothing  particular,  only 
sky  and  daylight.  Their  soothing  accompaniments,  autumn  leaves, 
the  cool  dry  air,  the  faint  aroma  —  crows  cawing  in  the  distance  - 
two  great  buzzards  wheeling  gracefully  and  slowly  far  up  there  — the 
occasional  murmur  of  the  wind,  sometimes  quite  gently,  then  threat 
ening  through  the  trees  —  a  gang  of  farm-laborers  loading  corn 
stalks  in  a  field  in  sight,  and  the  patient  horses  waiting. 

COLORS  —  A  CON-  Such  a  play  of  colors  and  lights,  different 
TRAST  seasons,  different  hours  of  the  day  —  the 

lines  of  the  far  horizon  where  the  faint- 
tinged  edge  of  the  landscape  loses  itself  in  the  sky.  As  I  slowly 
hobble  up  the  lane  toward  day-close,  an  incomparable  sunset  shoot 
ing  in  molten  sapphire  and  gold,  shaft  after  shaft,  through  the  ranks 
of  the  long-leaved  corn,  between  me  and  the  west. 

Another  day.—  The  rich  dark  green  of  the  tulip-trees  and  the  oaks, 
the  gray  of  the  swamp-willows,  the  dull  hues  of  the  sycamores  and 
black- walnuts,  the  emerald  of  the  cedars  (after  rain,)  and  the  light 
yellow  of  the  beeches. 

NOVEMBER  8,  '76          The    forenoon    leaden   and    cloudy,  not 

cold   or  wet,  but  indicating  both.      As  I 

hobble  down  here  and  sit  by  the  silent  pond,  how  different  from 
the  excitement  amid  which,  in  the  cities,  millions  of  people  are  now 
waiting  news  of  yesterday's  Presidential  election,  or  receiving  and 
discussing  the  result  — in  this  secluded  place  uncared-for,  unknown. 

CROWS  AND  Nov.   14.  —  As  I  sit  here  by  the  creek, 

CROWS  resting  after  my  walk,  a  warm    languor 

bathes  me  from  the  sun.      No  sound  but 

a  cawing  of  crows,  and  no  motion  but  their  black  flying  figures  from 
over-head,  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  the  pond  below.  Indeed  a 
principal  feature  of  the  scene  to-day  is  these  crows,  their  incessant 
cawing,  far  or  near,  and  their  countless  flocks  and  processions 
moving  from  place  to  place,  and  at  times  almost  darkening  the  air 
with  their  myriads.  As  I  sit  a  moment  writing  this  by  the  bank,  I 
see  the  black,  clear-cut  reflection  of  them  far  below,  flying  through 
the  watery  looking-glass,  by  ones,  twos,  or  long  strings.  All  last 
night  I  heard  the  noises  from  their  great  roost  in  a  neighboring  wood. 

A  WINTER  DAY  ON  One  bright  December  mid-day  lately  I 
THE  SEA-BEACH  spent  down  on  the  New  Jersey  sea-shore, 

reaching  it  by  a  little  more  than  an  hour's 
railroad   trip   over  the   old   Camden   and   Atlantic.     I    had   started 


88  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

betimes,  fortified  by  nice  strong  coffee  and  a  good  breakfast  (cook'd 
by  the  hands  I  love,  my  dear  sister  Lou's  —  how  much  better  it  makes 
the  victuals  taste,  and  then  assimilate,  strengthen  you,  perhaps  make  the 
whole  day  comfortable  afterwards.)  Five  or  six  miles  at  the  last,  our 
track  enter' d  a  broad  region  of  salt  grass  meadows,  intersected  by 
lagoons,  and  cut  up  everywhere  by  watery  runs.  The  sedgy  perfume, 
delightful  to  my  nostrils,  reminded  me  of  "the  mash"  and  south  bay 
of  my  native  island.  I  could  have  journey 'd  contentedly  till  night 
through  these  flat  and  odorous  sea-prairies.  From  half-past  1 1  till  2 
I  was  nearly  all  the  time  along  the  beach,  or  in  sight  of  the  ocean, 
listening  to  its  hoarse  murmur,  and  inhaling  the  bracing  and  welcome 
breezes.  First,  a  rapid  five-mile  drive  over  the  hard  sand  —  our 
carriage  wheels  hardly  made  dents  in  it.  Then  after  dinner  (as  there 
were  nearly  two  hours  to  spare)  I  walk'd  off  in  another  direction, 
(hardly  met  or  saw  a  person,)  and  taking  possession  of  what  appear' d 
to  have  been  the  reception-room  of  an  old  bath-house  range,  had  a 
broad  expanse  of  view  all  to  myself —  quaint,  refreshing,  unimpeded  — 
a  dry  area  of  sedge  and  Indian  grass  immediately  before  and  around 
me  —  space,  simple,  unornamented  space.  Distant  vessels,  and  the 
far-off,  just  visible  trailing  smoke  of  an  inward  bound  steamer  ;  more 
plainly,  ships,  brigs,  schooners,  in  sight,  most  of  them  with  every  sail 
set  to  the  firm  and  steady  wind. 

The  attractions,  fascinations  there  are  in  sea  and  shore  !  How 
one  dwells  on  their  simplicity,  even  vacuity  !  What  is  it  in  us, 
arous'd  by  those  indirections  and  directions  ?  That  spread  of  waves 
and  gray-white  beach,  salt,  monotonous,  senseless  —  such  an  entire 
absence  of  art,  books,  talk,  elegance  —  so  indescribably  comforting, 
even  this  winter  day  —  grim,  yet  so  delicate-looking,  so  spiritual  — 
striking  emotional,  impalpable  depths,  subtler  than  all  the  poems, 
paintings,  music,  I  have  ever  read,  seen,  heard.  (Yet  let  me  be  fair, 
perhaps  it  is  because  I  have  read  those  poems  and  heard  that  music.) 

SEA-SHORE    FAN-          Even  as  a  boy,  I  had  the  fancy,  the  wish, 

CIES  to  write  a  piece,  perhaps  a  poem,  about 

the   sea-shore  —  that   suggesting,   dividing 

line,  contact,  junction,  the  solid  marrying  the  liquid  —  that  curious, 
lurking  something,  (as  doubtless  every  objective  form  finally  becomes 
to  the  subjective  spirit,)  which  means  far  more  than  its  mere  first 
sight,  grand  as  that  is  —  blending  the  real  and  ideal,  and  each  made 
portion  of  the  other.  Hours,  days,  in  my  Long  Island  youth  and 
early  manhood,  I  haunted  the  shores  of  Rockaway  or  Coney  island,  or 
away  east  to  the  Hamptons  or  Montauk.  Once,  at  the  latter  place, 
(by  the  old  lighthouse,  nothing  but  sea-tossings  in  sight  in  every  direc 
tion  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, )  I  remember  well,  I  felt  that  I  must  one 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  89 

day  write  a  book  expressing  this  liquid,  mystic  theme.  Afterward,  I  recol 
lect,  how  it  came  to  me  that  instead  of  any  special  lyrical  or  epical  or 
literary  attempt,  the  sea-shore  should  be  an  invisible  influence,  a  per 
vading  gauge  and  tally  for  me,  in  my  composition.  (Let  me  give  a 
hint  here  to  young  writers.  I  am  not  sure  but  I  have  unwittingly 
follow' d  out  the  same  rule  with  other  powers  besides  sea  and  shores  — 
avoiding  them,  in  the  way  of  any  dead  set  at  poetizing  them,  as  too 
big  for  formal  handling  —  quite  satisfied  if  I  could  indirectly  show 
that  we  have  met  and  fused,  even  if  only  once,  but  enough  —  that  we 
have  really  absorb' d  each  other  and  understand  each  other.) 

There  is  a  dream,  a  picture,  that  for  years  at  intervals,  (sometimes 
quite  long  ones,  but  surely  again,  in  time,)  has  come  noiselessly  up 
before  me,  and  I  really  believe,  fiction  as  it  is,  has  enter' d  largely  into 
my  practical  life  —  certainly  into  my  writings,  and  shaped  and  color' d 
them.  It  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  stretch  of  interminable  white- 
brown  sand,  hard  and  smooth  and  broad,  with  the  ocean  perpetually, 
grandly,  rolling  in  upon  it,  with  slow-measured  sweep,  with  rustle  and 
hiss  and  foam,  and  many  a  thump  as  of  low  bass  drums.  This  scene, 
this  picture,  I  say,  has  risen  before  me  at  times  for  years.  Sometimes 
I  wake  at  night  and  can  hear  and  see  it  plainly. 

IN    MEMORY    OF          Some  thirty-five  years  ago,  in  New  York 

THOMAS    PAINE  city,  at  Tammany  hall,  of  which  place  I 

r-     /    if  11   PAV         was  tnen  a  frequenter,  I  happen'd  to  be- 

Spoken  at  Lincoln  Hall.  Phila-  .  .{  .         ,       •  i     r^-> 

delpbia,  Sunday,  Jan.  28,  '77>      come  1Ulte  Wel1    acqual.ntfd  With    Thomas 

for  1 4oth  anniversary  of  T.  P.'i  Paine's  perhaps  most  intimate  chum,  and 
birthday  certainly  his  later  years'  very  frequent 

companion,    a   remarkably  fine   old   man, 

Col.  Fellows,  who  may  yet  be  remember' d  by  some  stray  relics  of 
that  period  and  spot.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  first  give  a  description 
of  the  Colonel  himself.  He  was  tall,  of  military  bearing,  aged  about 
78,  I  should  think,  hair  white  as  snow,  clean-shaved  on  the  face, 
dress'd  very  neatly,  a  tail-coat  of  blue  cloth  with  metal  buttons,  buff 
vest,  pantaloons  of  drab  color,  and  his  neck,  breast  and  wrists  showing 
the  whitest  of  linen.  Under  all  circumstances,  fine  manners;  a  good 
but  not  profuse  talker,  his  wits  still  fully  about  him,  balanced  and  live 
and  undimm'd  as  ever.  He  kept  pretty  fair  health,  though  so  old. 
For  employment  —  for  he  was  poor  —  he  had  a  post  as  constable  of 
some  of  the  upper  courts.  I  used  to  think  him  very  picturesque  on 
the  fringe  of  a  crowd  holding  a  tall  staff,  with  his  erect  form,  and  his 
superb,  bare,  thick-hair' d,  closely-cropt  white  head.  The  judges 
and  young  lawyers,  with  whom  he  was  ever  a  favorite,  and  the  sub 
ject  of  respect,  used  to  call  him  Aristides.  It  was  the  general  opinion 
among  them  that  if  manly  rectitude  and  the  instincts  of  absolute  justice 


90  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

remained  vital  anywhere  about  New  York  City  Hall,  or  Tammany 
they  were  to  be  found  in  Col.  Fellows.  He  liked  young  men,  and 
enjoy 'd  to  leisurely  talk  with  them  over  a  social  glass  of  toddy,  after 
his  day's  work,  (he  on  these  occasions  never  drank  but  one  glass,) 
and  it  was  at  reiterated  meetings  of  this  kind  in  old  Tammany's  back 
parlor  of  those  days,  that  he  told  me  much  about  Thomas  Paine.  At 
one  of  our  interviews  he  gave  me  a  minute  account  of  Paine's  sickness 
and  death.  In  short,  from  those  talks,  I  was  and  am  satisfied  that 
my  old  friend,  with  his  mark'd  advantages,  had  mentally,  morally  and 
emotionally  gauged  the  author  of  "  Common  Sense,"  and  besides  giv 
ing  me  a  good  portrait  of  his  appearance  and  manners,  had  taken  the 
true  measure  of  his  interior  character. 

Paine's  practical  demeanor,  and  much  of  his  theoretical  belief,  was 
a  mixture  of  the  French  and  English  schools  of  a  century  ago,  and 
the  best  of  both.  Like  most  old-fashion' d  people,  he  drank  a  glass 
or  two  every  day,  but  was  no  tippler,  nor  intemperate,  let  alone 
being  a  drunkard.  He  lived  simply  and  economically,  but  quite  well 
—  was  always  cheery  and  courteous,  perhaps  occasionally  a  little 
blunt,  having  very  positive  opinions  upon  politics,  religion,  and  so 
forth.  That  he  labor'd  well  and  wisely  for  the  States  in  the  trying 
period  of  their  parturition,  and  in  the  seeds  of  their  character,  there 
seems  to  me  no  question.  I  dare  not  say  how  much  of  what  our 
Union  is  owning  and  enjoying  to-day — its  independence  —  its 

ardent  belief  in,  and  substantial  practice  of  radical  human  rights 

and  the  severance  of  its  government  from  all  ecclesiastical  and  supersti 
tious  dominion  —  I  dare  not  say  how  much  of  all  this  is  owing  to  Thomas 
Paine,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  a  good  portion  of  it  decidedly  is. 

But  I  was  not  going  either  into  an  analysis  or  eulogium  of  the  man. 
I  wanted  to  carry  you  back  a  generation  or  two,  and  give  you  by  in 
direction  a  moment's  glance  —  and  also  to  ventilate  a  very  earnest' and 
I  believe  authentic  opinion,  nay  conviction,  of  that  time,  the  fruit  of 
the  interviews  I  have  mention' d,  and  of  questioning  and  cross-question 
ing,  clench' d  by  my  best  information  since,  that  Thomas  Paine  had  a 
noble  personality,  as  exhibited  in  presence,  face,  voice,  dress,  manner, 
and  what  may  be  call'd  his  atmosphere  and  magnetism,  especially  the 
later  years  of  his  life.  I  am  sure  of  it.  Of  the  foul  and  foolish  fictions 
yet  told  about  the  circumstances  of  his  decease,  the  absolute  fact  is  that 
as  he  lived  a  good  life,  after  its  kind,  he  died  calmly  and  philosoph 
ically,  as  became  him.  He  served  the  embryo  Union  with  most  precious 
service  —  a  service  that  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  our  thirty-eight 
States  is  to  some  extent  receiving  the  benefit  of  to-day  —  and  I  for  one 
here  cheerfully,  reverently  throw  my  pebble  on  the  cairn  of  his  memory. 
As  we  all  know,  the  season  demands  —  or  rather,  will  it  ever  be  out  of 
season  ?  —  that  America  learn  to  better  dwell  on  her  choicest  posses- 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  91 

sion,  the  legacy  of  her  good  and  faithful  men  —  that  she  well  preserve 
their  fame,  if  unquestioned  — or,  if  need  be,  that  she  fail  not  to  dissi 
pate  what  clouds  have  intruded  on  that  fame,  and  burnish  it  newer, 
truer  and  brighter,  continually. 

A    TWO    HOURS  Feb.  3,  '77.—  From  4  to  6  p.  M.  crossing 

ICE-SAIL  the  Delaware,  (back  again  at  my  Camden 

home, )  unable  to  make  our  landing,  through 

the  ice  ;  our  boat  stanch  and  strong  and  skilfully  piloted,  but  old  and 
sulky,  and  poorly  minding  her  helm.  (Power,  so  important  in  poetry 
and  war,  is  also  first  point  of  all  in  a  winter  steamboat,  with  long 
stretches  of  ice-packs  to  tackle.)  For  over  two  hours  we  bump'd  and 
beat  about,  the  invisible  ebb,  sluggish  but  irresistible,  often  carrying  us 
long  distances  against  our  will.  In  the  first  tinge  of  dusk,  as  I  look'd 
around,  I  thought  there  could  not  be  presented  a  more  chilling,  arctic, 
grim-extended,  depressing  scene.  Everything  was  yet  plainly  visible  ; 
for  miles  north  and  south,  ice,  ice,  ice,  mostly  broken,  but  some  big 
cakes,  and  no  clear  water  in  sight.  The  shores,  piers,  surfaces,  roofs, 
shipping,  mantled  with  snow.  A  faint  winter  vapor  hung  a  fitting 
accompaniment  around  and  over  the  endless  whitish  spread,  and  gave 
it  just  a  tinge  of  steel  and  brown. 

peb.  fi.  —  As  I  cross  home  in  the  6  p.  M.  boat  again,  the  trans 
parent  shadows  are  filled  everywhere  with,  leisurely  falling,  slightly 
slanting,  curiously  sparse  but  very  large,  flakes  of  snow.  On  the 
shores,  near  and  far,  the  glow  of  just-lit  gas-clusters  at  intervals.  The 
ice,  sometimes  in  hummocks,  sometimes  floating  fields,  through  which 
our  boat  goes  crunching.  The  light  permeated  by  that  peculiar  even 
ing  haze,  right  after  sunset,  which  sometimes  renders  quite  distant 
objects  so  distinctly. 

SPRING  OVER-  Feb.  10. —  The  first  chirping,  almost  sing- 

TURES  —  RECREA-  ing,  of  a  bird  to-day.  Then  I  noticed  a 
TIONS  couple  of  honey-bees  spirting  and  humming 

about  the  open  window  in  the  sun. 

Feb.  ii.  — In  the  soft  rose  and  pale  gold  of  the  declining  light,  this 
beautiful  evening,  I  heard  the  first  hum  and  preparation  of  awakening 
spring  —  very  faint —  whether  in  the  earth  or  roots,  or  starting  of  in 
sects,  I  know  not  —  but  it  was  audible,  as  I  lean'd  on  a  rail  (I  am 
down  in  my  country  quarters  awhile,)  and  look'd  long  at  the  western 
horizon.  Turning  to  the  east,  Sirius,  as  the  shadows  deepened,  came 
forth  in  dazzling  splendor.  And  great  Orion  ;  and  a  little  to  the 
north-east  the  big  Dipper,  standing  on  end. 

Feb.  2O. —  A  solitary  and  pleasant  sundown  hour  at  the  pond,  ex 
ercising  arms,  chest,  my  whole  body,  by  a  tough  oak  sapling  thick  as 


92  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

my  wrist,  twelve  feet  high — pulling  and  pushing,  inspiring  the  good 
air.  After  I  wrestle  with  the  tree  awhile,  I  can  feel  its  young  sap 
and  virtue  welling  up  out  of  the  ground  and  tingling  through  me  from 
crown  to  toe,  like  health's  wine.  Then  for  addition  and  variety  I 
launch  forth  in  my  vocalism ;  shout  declamatory  pieces,  sentiments, 
sorrow,  anger,  &c.,  from  the  stock  poets  or  plays  —  or  inflate  my 
lungs  and  sing  the  wild  tunes  and  refrains  I  heard  of  the  blacks  down 
south,  or  patriotic  songs  I  learn'd  in  the  army.  I  make  the  echoes 
ring,  I  tell  you  !  As  the  twilight  fell,  in  a  pause  of  these  ebullitions, 
an  owl  somewhere  the  other  side  of  the  creek  sounded  too-oo-oo-oo-oo, 
soft  and  pensive  (and  I  fancied  a  little  sarcastic)  repeated  four  or  five 
times.  Either  to  applaud  the  negro  songs  —  or  perhaps  an  ironical 
comment  on  the  sorrow,  anger,  or  style  of  the  stock  poets. 

ONE  OF  THE  HU-        How  is   it  that    in  all    the  serenity  and 

MAN  KINKS  lonesomeness  of   solitude,   away   off  here 

amid  the  hush  of  the  forest,  alone,  or  as  I 

have  found  in  prairie  wilds,  or  mountain  stillness,  one  is  never  entirely 
without  the  instinct  of  looking  around,  (I  never  am,  and  others  tell  me 
the  same  of  themselves,  confidentially,)  for  somebody  to  appear,  or 
start  up  out  of  the  earth,  or  from  behind  some  tree  or  rock  ?  Is  it  a 
lingering,  inherited  remains  of  man's  primitive  wariness,  from  the  wild 
animals  ?  or  from  his  savage  ancestry  far  back  ?  It  is  not  at  all  nervous 
ness  or  fear.  Seems  as  if  something  unknown  were  possibly  lurking  in 
those  bushes,  or  solitary  places.  Nay,  it  is  quite  certain  there  is — 
some  vital  unseen  presence. 

AN  AFTERNOON  Feb.  22.—-  Last  night  and   to-day    rainy 

SCENE  and    thick,   till  mid-afternoon,  when  the 

wind   chopp'd  round,   the  clouds  swiftly 

drew  off  like  curtains,  the  clear  appeared,  and  with  it  the  fairest, 
grandest,  most  wondrous  rainbow  I  ever  saw,  all  complete,  very  vivid 
at  its  earth-ends,  spreading  vast  effusions  of  illuminated  haze,  violet, 
yellow,  drab-green,  in  all  directions  overhead,  through  which  the  sun 
beam'd — an  indescribable  utterance  of  color  and  light,  so  gorgeous 
yet  so  soft,  such  as  I  had  never  witness' d  before.  Then  its  continu 
ance  :  a  full  hour  pass'd  before  the  last  of  those  earth-ends  disappear'd. 
The  sky  behind  was  all  spread  in  translucent  blue,  with  many  little 
white  clouds  and  edges.  To  these  a  sunset,  filling,  dominating  the 
esthetic  and  soul  senses,  sumptuously,  tenderly,  full.  I  end  this  note 
by  the  pond,  just  light  enough  to  see,  through  the  evening  shadows,  the 
western  reflections  in  its  water-mirror  surface,  with  inverted  figures  of 
trees.  I  hear  now  and  then  they?*/  of  a  pike  leaping  out,  and  rippling 
the  water. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  93 

THE  GATES  OPEN-  April  6. —  Palpable  spring  indeed,  or  the 
ING  indications  of  it.  I  am  sitting  in  bright 

sunshine,  at  the  edge  of  the  creek,  the  sur 
face  just  rippled  by  the  wind.  All  is  solitude,  morning  freshness, 
negligence.  For  companions  my  two  kingfishers  sailing,  winding, 
darting,  dipping,  sometimes  capriciously  separate,  then  flying  together. 
I  hear  their  guttural  twittering  again  and  again  ;  for  awhile  nothing  but 
that  peculiar  sound.  As  noon  approaches  other  birds  warm  up.  The 
reedy  notes  of  the  robin,  and  a  musical  passage  of  two  parts,  one  a 
clear  delicious  gurgle,  with  several  other  birds  I  cannot  place.  To 
which  is  join* d,  (yes,  I  just  hear  it,)  one  low  purr  at  intervals  from 
some  impatient  hylas  at  the  pond-edge.  The  sibilant  murmur  of  a 
pretty  stiff  breeze  now  and  then  through  the  trees.  Then  a  poor  little 
dead  leaf,  long  frost-bound,  whirls  from  somewhere  up  aloft  in  one 
wild  escaped  freedom-spree  in  space  and  sunlight,  and  then  dashes 
down  to  the  waters,  which  hold  it  closely  and  soon  drown  it  out  of 
sight.  The  bushes  and  trees  are  yet  bare,  but  the  beeches  have  their 
wrinkled  yellow  leaves  of  last  season's  foliage  largely  left,  frequent 
cedars  and  pines  yet  green,  and  the  grass  not  without  proofs  of  coming 
fullness.  And  over  all  a  wonderfully  fine  dome  of  clear  blue,  the 
play  of  light  coming  and  going,  and  great  fleeces  of  white  clouds  swim 
ming  so  silently. 

THE  COMMON  The  soil,  too  —  let  others  pen-and-ink  the 

EARTH,  THE  SOIL      sea,   the  air,    (as  I  sometimes  try) — but 

now  I  feel  to  choose  the  common  soil  for 

theme  —  naught  else.  The  brown  soil  here,  (just  between  winter-close 
and  opening  spring  and  vegetation) — the  rain-shower  at  night,  and  the 
fresh  smell  next  morning  —  the  red  worms  wriggling  out  of  the 
ground  —  the  dead  leaves,  the  incipient  grass,  and  the  latent  life  un 
derneath —  the  effort  to  start  something  —  already  in  sheltered  spots 
some  little  flowers  —  the  distant  emerald  show  of  winter  wheat  and 
the  rye-fields  —  the  yet  naked  trees,  with  clear  insterstices,  giving 
prospects  hidden  in  summer — the  tough  fallow  and  the  plow-team, 
and  the  stout  boy  whistling  to  his  horses  for  encouragement — and  there 
the  dark  fat  earth  in  long  slanting  stripes  upturn' d. 

BIRDS  AND  BIRDS  A  Unit  later — bright  weather.  —  An  un- 
AND  BIRDS  usual  melodiousness,  these  days,  (last  of 

April  and  first  of  May)  from  the  black 
birds  ;  indeed  all  sorts  of  birds,  darting,  whistling,  hopping  or  perch' d 
on  trees.  Never  before  have  I  seen,  heard,  or  been  in  the  midst  of, 
and  got  so  flooded  and  saturated  with  them  and  their  performances,  as 


94  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

this  current  month.     Such  oceans,  such  successions  of  them.     Let  me 
make  a  list  of  those  I  find  here  : 

Black  birds  (plenty,)  Meadow-larks  (plenty,) 

Ring  doves,  Cat-birds  (plenty,) 

Owls,  Cuckoos, 

Woodpeckers,  Pond  snipes  (plenty,) 

King-birds,  Cheewinks, 

Crows  (plenty,)  Quawks, 

Wrens,  Ground  robins, 

Kingfishers,  Ravens, 

Quails,  Gray  snipes, 

Turkey-buzzards,  Eagles, 

Hen-hawks,  High-holes, 

Yellow  birds,  Herons, 

Thrushes,  Tits, 

Reed  birds,  Woodpigeons. 

Early  came  the 

Blue  birds,  Meadow-lark, 

Killdeer,  White-bellied  swallow, 

Plover,  Sandpiper, 

Robin,  Wilson's  thrush, 

Woodcock,  Flicker. 

FULL-STARR'D  May    21.  —  Back    in-    Camden.     Again 

NIGHTS  commencing  one  of  those  unusually  trans 

parent,  full-starr' d,  blue-black  nights,  as  if 

to  show  that  however  lush  and  pompous  the  day  may  be,  there  is 
something  left  in  the  not-day  that  can  outvie  it.  The  rarest,  finest 
sample  of  long-drawn-out  clear-obscure,  from  sundown  to  9  o'clock. 
I  went  down  to  the  Delaware,  and  cross' d  and  cross' d.  Venus  like 
blazing  silver  well  up  in  the  west.  The  large  pale  thin  crescent  of  the 
new  moon,  half  an  hour  high,  sinking  languidly  under  a  bar-sinister  of 
cloud,  and  then  emerging.  Arcturus  right  overhead.  A  faint  fragrant 
sea-odor  wafted  up  from  the  south.  The  gloaming,  the  temper'd 
coolness,  with  every  feature  of  the  scene,  indescribably  soothing  and 
tonic  —  one  of  those  hours  that  give  hints  to  the  soul,  impossible  to 
put  in  a  statement.  (Ah,  where  would  be  any  food  for  spirituality 
without  night  and  the  stars?)  The  vacant  spaciousness  of  the  air,  and 
the  veil'd  blue  of  the  heavens,  seem'd  miracles  enough. 

As  the  night  advanc'd  it  changed  its  spirit  and  garments  to  ampler 
stateliness.  I  was  almost  conscious  of  a  definite  presence,  Nature 
silently  near.  The  great  constellation  of  the  Water-Serpent  stretch' d 
its  coils  over  more  than  half  the  heavens.  The  Swan  with  outspread 
wings  was  flying  down  the  Milky  Way.  The  northern  Crown, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  95 

the  Eagle,  Lyra,  all  up  there  in  their  places.  From  the  whole  dome 
shot  down  points  of  light,  rapport  with  me,  through  the  clear  blue- 
black.  All  the  usual  sense  of  motion,  all  animal  life,  seem'd  discard 
ed,  seem'd  a  fiction;  a  curious  power,  like  the  placid  rest  of  Egyp 
tian  gods,  took  possession,  none  the  less  potent  for  being  impalpable. 
Earlier  I  had  seen  many  bats,  balancing  in  the  luminous  twilight,  dart 
ing  their  black  forms  hither  and  yon  over  the  river;  but  now  they 
altogether  disappear' d.  The  evening  star  and  the  moon  had  gone. 
Alertness  and  peace  lay  camly  couching  together  through  the  fluid 
universal  shadows. 

Aug.  26.  —  Bright  has  the  day  been,  and  my  spirits  an  equal 
forzando.  Then  comes  the  night,  different,  inexpressibly  pensive, 
with  its  own  tender  and  temper' d  splendor.  Venus  lingers  in  the 
west  with  a  voluptuous  dazzle  unshown  hitherto  this  summer.  Mars 
rises  early,  and  the  red  sulky  moon,  two  days  past  her  full ;  Jupiter  at 
night*  s  meridian,  and  the  long  curling-slanted  Scorpion  stretching 
full  view  in  the  south,  Aretus-neck'd.  Mars  walks  the  heavens  lord- 
paramount  now;  all  through  this  month  I  go  out  after  supper  and  watch 
for  him ;  sometimes  getting  up  at  midnight  to  take  another  look  at 
his  unparallePd  lustre.  (I  see  lately  an  astronomer  has  made  out 
through  the  new  Washington  telescope  that  Mars  has  certainly  one 
moon,  perhaps  two.)  Pale  and  distant,  but  near  in  the  heavens,  Saturn 
precedes  him. 

MULLEINS  AND  Large,    placid   mulleins,   as   summer    ad- 

MULLEINS  vances,    velvety    in    texture,    of    a    light 

greenish-drab   color,  growing   everywhere 

in  the  fields  —  at  first  earth's  big  rosettes  in  their  broad-leav'd  low 
cluster-plants,  eight,  ten,  twenty  leaves  to  a  plant  —  plentiful  on  the 
fallow  twenty-acre  lot,  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  and  especially  by 
the  ridge-sides  of  the  fences  —  then  close  to  the  ground,  but  soon 
springing  up  —  leaves  as  broad  as  my  hand,  and  the  lower  ones  twice 
as  long  —  so  fresh  and  dewy  in  the  morning  —  stalks  now  four  or  five, 
even  seven  or  eight  feet  high.  The  farmers,  I  find,  think  the  mullein 
a  mean  unworthy  weed,  but  I  have  grown  to  a  fondness  for  it.  Every 
object  has  its  lesson,  enclosing  the  suggestion  of  everything  else  —  and 
lately  I  sometimes  think  all  is  concentrated  for  me  in  these  hardy, 
yellow-flower' d  weeds.  As  I  come  down  the  lane  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  I  pause  before  their  soft  wool-like  fleece  and  stem  and  broad  leaves, 
glittering  with  countless  diamonds.  Annually  for  three  summers  now, 
they  and  I  have  silently  return' d  together;  at  such  long  intervals 
I  stand  or  sit  among  them,  musing  —  and  woven  with  the  rest,  of 
so  many  hours  and  moods  of  partial  rehabilitation  —  of  my  sane  or  sick 
spirit,  here  as  near  at  peace  as  it  can  be. 
8 


96  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

DISTANT  SOUNDS        The  axe  of  the  wood-cutter,  the  measured 
thud  of  a  single  threshing-flail,  the  crowing 

of  chanticleer  in  the  barn-yard,  (with  invariable  responses  from  other 
barn-yards,)  and  the  lowing  of  Battle  —  but  most  of  all,  or  far  or  near, 
the  wind  —  through  the  high  tree-tops,  or  through  low  bushes,  laving 
one's  face  and  hands  so  gently,  this  balmy-bright  noon,  the  coolest  for 
a  long  time,  (Sept.  2)  —  I  will  not  call  it  sighing,  for  to  me  it 
is  always  a  firm,  sane,  cheery  expression,  through  a  monotone,  giving 
many  varieties,  or  swift  or  slow,  or  dense  or  delicate.  The  wind  in 
the  patch  of  pine  woods  off  there  —  how  sibilant.  Or  at  sea,  I  can 
imagine  it  this  moment,  tossing  the  waves,  with  spirits  of  foam  flying 
far,  and  the  free  whistle,  and  the  scent  of  the  salt  —  and  that  vast 
paradox  somehow  with  all  its  action  and  restlessness  conveying  a  sense 
of  eternal  rest. 

Other  adjuncts.  — But  the  sun  and  the  moon  here  and  these  times. 
As  never  more  wonderful  by  day,  the  gorgeous  orb  imperial,  so  vast, 
so  ardently,  lovingly  hot  —  so  never  a  more  glorious  moon  of  nights, 
especially  the  last  three  or  four.  The  great  planets  too —  Mars  never 
before  so  flaming  bright,  so  flashing-large,  with  slight  yellow  tinge, 
(the  astronomers  say  —  is  it  true  ? —  nearer  to  us  than  any  time  the 
past  century)  —  and  well  up,  lord  Jupiter,  (a  little  while  since  close  by 
the  moon)  — and  in  the  west,  after  the  sun  sinks,  voluptuous  Venus, 
now  languid  and  shorn  of  her  beams,  as  if  from  some  divine  excess. 

A  SUN-BATH—  Sunday,   Aug.   27. — Another   day  quite 

NAKEDNESS  free  from    mark'd   prostration    and   pain. 

It  seems  indeed  as  if  peace  and  nutriment 

from  heaven  subtly  filter  into  me  as  I  slowly  hobble  down  these  country 
lanes  and  across  fields,  in  the  good  air  —  as  I  sit  here  in  solitude  with 
Nature  —  open,  voiceless,  mystic,  far  removed,  yet  palpable,  eloquent 
Nature.  I  merge  myself  in  the  scene,  in  the  perfect  day.  Hovering 
over  the  clear  brook-water,  I  am  sooth' d  by  its  soft  gurgle  in  one 
place,  and  the  hoarser  murmurs  of  its  three-foot  fall  in  another. 
Come,  ye  disconsolate,  in  whom  any  latent  eligibility  is  left  —  come 
get  the  sure  virtues  of  creek-shore,  and  wood  and  field.  Two  months 
(July  and  August,  '77,)  have  I  absorb' d  them,  and  they  begin  to 
make  a  new  man  of  me.  Every  day,  seclusion  —  every  day  at  least 
two  or  three  hours  of  freedom,  bathing,  no  talk,  no  bonds,  no  dress, 
no  books,  no  manners. 

Shall  I  tell  you,  reader,  to  what  I  attribute  my  already  much-re 
stored  health  ?  That  I  have  been  almost  two  years,  off  and  on, 
without  drugs  and  medicines,  and  daily  in  the  open  air.  Last  summer 
I  found  a  particularly  secluded  little  dell  off  one  side  by  my  creek, 
originally  a  large  dug-out  marl-pit,  now  abandon' d,  fill'd,  with 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  97 

bushes,  trees,  grass,  a  group  of  willows,  a  straggling  bank,  and  a 
spring  of  delicious  water  running  right  through  the  middle  of  it,  with 
two  or  three  little  cascades.  Here  I  retreated  every  hot  day,  and 
follow  it  up  this  summer.  Here  I  realize  the  meaning  of  that  old 
fellow  who  said  he  was  seldom  less  alone  than  when  alone.  Never 
before  did  I  get  so  close  to  Nature  ;  never  before  did  she  come  so 
close  to  me.  By  old  habit,  I  pencill'd  down  from  time  to  time, 
almost  automatically,  moods,  sights,  hours,  tints  and  outlines,  on  the 
spot.  Let  me  specially  record  the  satisfaction  of  this  current  forenoon, 
so  serene  and  primitive,  so  conventionally  exceptional,  natural. 

An  hour  or  so    after   breakfast  I  wended    my  way  down    to    the 
recesses  of   the  aforesaid  dell,  which  I  and  certain  thrushes,  cat-birds, 
&c.,  had    all    to  ourselves.     A   light   south-west  wind  was   blowing 
through  the  tree-tops.      It  was  just  the  place  and  time  for  my  Adamic 
air-bath  and  flesh-brushing  from  head  to  foot.      So  hanging  clothes  on 
a  rail  near  by,  keeping  old  broadbrim  straw  on  head  and  easy  shoes 
on  feet,  havn't  I  had  a  good  time  the  last  two  hours  !     First  with  the 
stiff-elastic  bristles  rasping  arms,  breast,  sides,  till  they  turn' d  scarlet  — 
then  partially  bathing  in    the  clear  waters  of  the   running   brook  — 
aking  everything  very  leisurely,  with  many  rests  and  pauses  —  step- 
ting    about  barefooted    every  few    minutes    now    and    then    in   some 
icighboring  black  ooze,   for  unctuous  mud-bath  to  my  feet  —  a  brief 
econd  and  third  rinsing  in  the  crystal  running  waters  —  rubbing  with 
he  fragrant  towel  —  slow  negligent  promenades  on  the  turf  up  and 
down  in  the  sun,  varied  with  occasional  rests,  and  further  frictions  of 
Jie    bristle-brush — sometimes   carrying  my  portable   chair   with    me 
rom    place  to  place,   as  my  range  is  quite  extensive  here,    nearly  a 
mndred  rods,  feeling  quite  secure  from  intrusion,  (and  that  indeed  I 
am  not  at  all  nervous  about,  if  it  accidentally  happens.) 

As  I  walk'd  slowly  over  the  grass,  the  sun  shone  out  enough  to 
show  the  shadow  moving  with  me.  Somehow  I  seem'd  to  get 
dentity  with  each  and  every  thing  around  me,  in  its  condition. 
Nature  was  naked,  and  I  was  also.  It  was  too  lazy,  soothing,  and 
oyous-equable  to  speculate  about.  Yet  I  might  have  thought  some 
how  in  this  vein  :  Perhaps  the  inner  never-lost  rapport  we  hold  with 
earth,  light,  air,  trees,  &c.,  is  not  to  be  realized  through  eyes  and  mind 
only,  but  through  the  whole  corporeal  body,  which  I  will  not  have 
blinded  or  bandaged  any  more  than  the  eyes.  Sweet,  sane,  still 
Nakedness  in  Nature  !  — ah  if  poor,  sick,  prurient  humanity  in  cities 
might  really  know  you  once  more  !  Is  not  nakedness  then  indecent  ? 
No,  not  inherently.  It  is  your  thought,  your  sophistication,  your 
fear,  your  respectability,  that  is  indecent.  There  come  moods 
when  these  clothes  of  ours  are  not  only  too  irksome  to  wear, 
but  are  themselves  indecent.  Perhaps  indeed  he  or  she  to 


98  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

whom  the  free  exhilarating  extasy  of  nakedness  in  Nature  has 
never  been  eligible  (and  how  many  thousands  there  are  !)  has  not 
really  known  what  purity  is  —  nor  what  faith  or  art  or  health  really  is. 
(Probably  the  whole  curriculum  of  first-class  philosophy,  beauty, 
heroism,  form,  illustrated  by  the  old  Hellenic  race  —  the  highest 
height  and  deepest  depth  known  to  civilization  in  those  departments  — 
came  from  their  natural  and  religious  idea  of  Nakedness. ) 

Many  such  hours,  from  time  to  time,  the  last  two  summers  —  I 
attribute  my  partial  rehabilitation  largely  to  them.  Some  good  people 
may  think  it  a  feeble  or  half-crack' d  way  of  spending  one's  time  and 
thinking.  May-be  it  is. 

THE  OAKS  AND  I          Sept.  5,  '//.— I  write  this,    n   A.  M., 

shelter' d     under    a   dense    oak    by    the 

bank,  where  I  have  taken  refuge  from  a  sudden  rain.  I  came 
down  here,  (we  had  sulky  drizzles  all  the  morning,  but  an 
hour  ago  a  lull,)  for  the  before-mention'd  daily  and  simple  exer 
cise  I  am  fond  of —  to  pull  on  that  young  hickory  sapling  out  there  — 
to  sway  and  yield  to  its  tough-limber  upright  stem  —  haply  to  get  into 
my  old  sinews  some  of  its  elastic  fibre  and  clear  sap.  I  stand  on  the 
turf  and  take  these  health-pulls  moderately  and  at  intervals  for  nearly 
an  hour,  inhaling  great  draughts  of  fresh  air.  Wandering  by  the 
creek,  I  have  three  or  four  naturally  favorable  spots  where  I  rest  — 
besides  a  chair  I  lug  with  me  and  use  for  more  deliberate  occasions. 
At  other  spots  convenient  I  have  selected,  besides  the  hickory  just 
named,  strong  and  limber  boughs  of  beech  or  holly,  in  easy-reaching 
distance,  for  my  natural  gymnasia,  for  arms,  chest,  trunk-muscles.  I 
can  soon  feel  the  sap  and  sinew  rising  through  me,  like  mercury  to 
heat.  I  hold  on  boughs  or  slender  trees  caressingly  there  in  the  sun 
and  shade,  wrestle  with  their  innocent  stalwartness  —  and  know  the 
virtue  thereof  passes  from  them  into  me.  (Or  may-be  we  interchange 
—  may-be  the  trees  are  more  aware  of  it  all  than  I  ever  thought. ) 

But  now  pleasantly  imprison' d  here  under  the  big  oak  —  the  rain 
dripping,  and  the  sky  cover' d  with  leaden  clouds  —  nothing  but  the 
pond  on  one  side,  and  the  other  a  spread  of  grass,  spotted  with  the 
milky  blossoms  of  the  wild  carrot  —  the  sound  of  an  axe  wielded  at 
some  distant  wood-pile  —  yet  in  this  dull  scene,  (as  most  folks  would 
call  it,)  why  am  I  so  (almost)  happy  here  and  alone  ?  Why  would 
any  intrusion,  even  from  people  I  like,  spoil  the  charm  ?  But  am  I 
alone  ?  Doubtless  there  comes  a  time  —  perhaps  it  has  come  to  me  — 
when  one  feels  through  his  whole  being,  and  pronouncedly  the  emo 
tional  part,  that  identity  between  himself  subjectively  and  Nature  ob 
jectively  which  Schelling  and  Fichte  are  so  fond  of  pressing.  How  it 
is  I  know  not,  but  I  often  realize  a  presence  here  —  in  clear  moods  I 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  99 

am  certain  of  it,  and  neither  chemistry  nor  reasoning  nor  esthetics  will 
give  the  least  explanation.  All  the  past  two  summers  it  has  been 
strengthening  and  nourishing  my  sick  body  and  soul,  as  never  before. 
Thanks,  invisible  physician,  for  thy  silent  delicious  medicine,  thy  day 
and  night,  thy  waters  and  thy  airs,  the  banks,  the  grass,  the  trees,  and 
e'en  the  weeds  ! 

A    QUINTETTE  While  I  have  been  kept  by  the  rain  under 

the  shelter  of  my  great  oak,  (perfectly  dry 

and  comfortable,  to  the  rattle  of  the  drops  all  around,)  I  have  pen- 
cill'd  off  the  mood  of  the  hour  in  a  little  quintette,  which  I  will  give 
you: 

At  vacancy  with  Nature, 
Acceptive  and  at  ease, 
Distilling  the  present  hour, 
Whatever,  wherever  it  is, 
And  over  the  past,  oblivion. 

Can  you  get  hold  of  it,  reader  dear  ?  and  how  do  you  like  it  any 
how  ? 

THE  FIRST  FROST  Where  I  was  stopping  I  saw  the  first 
—  MEMS  palpable  frost,  on  my  sunrise  walk,  Octo 

ber  6;  all  over  the  yet-green  spread  a  light 

blue-gray  veil,  giving  a  new  show  to  the  entire  landscape.  I  had  but 
little  time  to  notice  it,  for  the  sun  rose  cloudless  and  mellow-warm, 
and  as  I  returned  along  the  lane  it  had  turn'd  to  glittering  patches  of 
wet.  As  I  walk  I  notice  the  bursting  pods  of  wild-cotton,  (Indian 
hemp  they  call  it  here, )  with  flossy-silky  contents,  and  dark  red-brown 
seeds  —  a  startled  rabbit  —  I  pull  a  handful  of  the  balsamic  life-ever 
lasting  and  stuff  it  down  in  my  trowsers-pocket  for  scent. 

THREE    YOUNG  December  20. — Somehow  I  got  thinking 

MEN'S    DEATHS  to-day  of  young  men's  deaths  —  not  at  all 

sadly  or  sentimentally,  but  gravely,  realis 
tically,  perhaps  a  little  artistically.  Let  me  give  the  following  three 
cases  from  budgets  of  personal  memoranda,  which  I  have  been  turning 
over,  alone  in  my  room,  and  resuming  and  dwelling  on,  this  rainy 
afternoon.  Who  is  there  to  whom  the  theme  does  not  come  home  ? 
Then  I  don't  know  how  it  may  be  to  others,  but  to  me  not  only  is 
there  nothing  gloomy  or  depressing  in  such  cases  —  on  the  contrary,  as 
reminiscences,  I  find  them  soothing,  bracing,  tonic. 

ERASTUS    HASKELL.  —  [I   just    transcribe    verbatim    from    a    letter 
written  by  myself  in  one  of  the  army  hospitals,  1 6  years  ago,  during 


ioo  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  secession  war.]  Washington,  July  28,  lS6j.  —  Dear  M.,  —  I 
am  writing  this  in  the  hospital,  sitting  by  the  side  of  a  soldier,  I  do  not 
expect  to  last  many  hours.  His  fate  has  been  a  hard  one  —  he  seems 
to  be  only  about  19  or  20  —  Erastus  Haskell,  company  K,  14151 
N.  Y.  —  has  been  out  about  a  year,  and  sick  or  half-sick  more  than 
half  that  time  —  has  been  down  on  the  peninsula  —  was  detail' d  to  go 
in  the  band  as  fifer-boy.  While  sick,  the  surgeon  told  him  to  keep  up 
with  the  rest —  (probably  work'd  and  march' d  too  long.)  He  is  a 
shy,  and  seems  to  me  a  very  sensible  boy  —  has  fine  manners — never 
complains  —  was  sick  down  on  the  peninsula  in  an  old  storehouse  — 
typhoid  fever.  The  first  week  this  July  was  brought  up  here  — journey 
very  bad,  no  accommodations,  no  nourishment,  nothing  but  hard  jolt 
ing,  and  exposure  enough  to  make  a  well  man  sick;  (these  fearful 
journeys  do  the  job  for  many) — arrived  here  July  nth  —  a  silent 
dark-skinn'd  Spanish-looking  youth,  with  large  very  dark  blue  eyes, 
peculiar  looking.  Doctor  F.  here  made  light  of  his  sickness  —  said  he 
would  recover  soon,  &c. ;  but  I  thought  very  different,  and  told  F. 
so  repeatedly;  (I  came  near  quarreling  with  him  about  it  from  the 
first)  — but  he  laugh' d,  and  would  not  listen  to  me.  About  four  days 
ago,  I  told  Doctor  he  would  in  my  opinion  lose  the  boy  without 
doubt  —  but  F.  again  laugh' d  at  me.  The  next  day  he  changed  his 
opinion  —  brought  the  head  surgeon  of  the  post  —  he  said  the  boy 
would  probably  die,  but  they  would  make  a  hard  fight  for  him. 

The  last  two  days  he  has  been  lying  panting  for  breath  —  a  pitiful 
sight.  I  have  been  with  him  some  every  day  or  night  since  he  arrived. 
He  suffers  a  great  deal  with  the  heat  —  says  little  or  nothing  —  is 
flighty  the  last  three  days,  at  times  —  knows  me  always,  however  — 
calls  me  "  Walter"  —  (sometimes  calls  the  name  over  and  over  and 
over  again,  musingly,  abstractedly,  to  himself.)  His  father  lives  at 
Breesport,  Chemung  county,  N.  Y.,  is  a  mechanic  with  large  family  —  is 
a  steady,  religious  man ;  his  mother  too  is  living.  I  have  written  to 
them,  and  shall  write  again  to-day  —  Erastus  has  not  receiv'd  a  word 
from  home  for  months. 

As  I  sit  here  writing  to  you,  M.,  I  wish  you  could  see  the  whole 
scene.  This  young  man  lies  within  reach  of  me,  flat  on  his  back,  his 
hands  clasp' d  across  his  breast,  his  thick  black  hair  cut  close;  he  is 
dozing,  breathing  hard,  every  breath  a  spasm  —  it  looks  so  cruel.  He 
is  a  noble  youngster,  —  I  consider  him  past  all  hope.  Often  there  is 
no  one  with  him  for  a  long  while.  I  am  here  as  much  as  possible. 

WILLIAM  ALCOTT,  fireman.  Camden,  Nov.,  1874. — Last  Mon 
day  afternoon  his  widow,  mother,  relatives,  mates  of  the  fire  depart 
ment,  and  his  other  friends,  (I  was  one,  only  lately  it  is  true,  but  our 
love  grew  fast  and  close,  the  days  and  nights  of  those  eight  weeks  by 
the  chair  of  rapid  decline,  and  the  bed  of  death,)  gather' d  to  the 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  101 

funeral  of  this  young  man,  who  had  grown  up,  a^d.,w,as_w<?ll-known 
here.  With  nothing  special,  perhaps,  to  rscard,  L  Vcjujd  give  "a  Vord 
or  two  to  his  memory.  He  seem'd  to  me  not  an  inappropriate 
specimen  in  character  and  elements,  of  that  bulk  of  the  average  good 
American  race  that  ebbs  and  flows  perennially  beneath  this  scum  of 
eructations  on  the  surface.  Always  very  quiet  in  manner,  neat  in  per 
son  and  dress,  good  temper' d  —  punctual  and  industrious  at  his  work, 
till  he  could  work  no  longer  —  he  just  lived  his  steady,  square,  unob 
trusive  life,  in  its  own  humble  sphere,  doubtless  unconscious  of  itself. 
(Though  I  think  there  were  currents  of  emotion  and  intellect  unde- 
velop'd  beneath,  far  deeper  than  his  acquaintances  ever  suspected  —  or 
than  he  himself  ever  did.)  He  was  no  talker.  His  troubles,  when 
he  had  any,  he  kept  to  himself.  As  there  was  nothing  querulous  about 
him  in  life,  he  made  no  complaints  during  his  last  sickness.  He  was 
one  of  those  persons  that  while  his  associates  never  thought  of  attribut 
ing  any  particular  talent  or  grace  to  him,  yet  all  insensibly,  really, 
liked  Billy  Alcott. 

I,  too,  loved  him.  At  last,  after  being  with  him  quite  a  good  deal 
—  after  hours  and  days  of  panting  for  breath,  much  of  the  time  uncon 
scious,  (for  though  the  consumption  that  had  been  lurking  in  his  sys 
tem,  once  thoroughly  started,  made  rapid  progress,  there  was  still 
great  vitality  in  him,  and  indeed  for  four  or  five  days  he  lay  dying, 
before  the  close,)  late  on  Wednesday  night,  Nov.  4th,  where  we  sur 
rounded  his  bed  in  silence,  there  came  a  lull  —  a  longer  drawn  breath, 
a  pause,  a  faint  sigh  —  another  —  a  weaker  breath,  another  sigh  —  a 
pause  again  and  just  a  tremble  —  and  the  face  of  the  poor  wasted 
young  man  (he  was  just  26,  )  fell  gently  over,  in  death,  on  my  hand, 
on  the  pillow. 

CHARLES  CASWELL.  —  [I  extract  the  following,  verbatim,  from  a 
letter  to  me  dated  September  29,  from  my  friend  John  Burroughs,  at 
Esopus-on-Hudson,  New  York  State.]  S.  was  away  when  your 
picture  came,  attending  his  sick  brother,  Charles  —  who  has  since 
died  —  an  event  that  has  sadden' d  me  much.  Charlie  was  younger 
than  S.,  and  a  most  attractive  young  fellow.  He  work'd  at  my 
father's  and  had  done  so  for  two  years.  He  was  about  the  best  speci 
men  of  a  young  country  farm-hand  I  ever  knew.  You  would  have 
loved  him.  He  was  like  one  of  your  poems.  With  his  great  strength, 
his  blond  hair,  his  cheerfulness  and  contentment,  his  universal  good 
will,  and  his  silent  manly  ways,  he  was  a  youth  hard  to  match.  He 
was  murder' d  by  an  old  doctor.  He  had  typhoid  fever,  and  the  old 
fool  bled  him  twice.  He  lived  to  wear  out  the  fever,  but  had  not 
strength  to  rally.  He  was  out  of  his  head  nearly  all  the  time.  In 
the  morning,  as  he  died  in  the  afternoon,  S.  was  standing  over  him, 
when  Charlie  put  up  his  arms  around  S.'s  neck,  and  pull'd  his  face 


102  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

do.wn  .and  , kissed,  Him..  S.  said  he  knew  then  the  end  was  near. 
(&.  stuck  to  ;hjm  Jay  .and  s^ght  to  the  last. )  When  I  was  home  in 
August,  Charlie  was  cradling  on  the  hill,  and  it  was  a  picture  to  see 
him  walk  through  the  grain.  All  work  seem'd  play  to  him.  He  had 
no  vices,  any  more  than  Nature  has,  and  was  belov'd  by  all  who 
knew  him. 

I  have  written  thus  to  you  about  him,  for  such  young  men  belong  to 
you;  he  was  of  your  kind.  I  wish  you  could  have  known  him.  He 
had  the  sweetness  of  a  child,  and  the  strength  and  courage  and  readi 
ness  of  a  young  Viking.  His  mother  and  father  are  poor;  they  have 
a  rough,  hard  farm.  His  mother  works  in  the  field  with  her  husband 
when  the  work  presses.  She  has  had  twelve  children. 

FEBRUARY  DAYS  February  7,  1878.  —  Glistening  sun   to 

day,  with  slight  haze,  warm  enough,  and 

yet  tart,  as  I  sit  here  in  the  open  air,  down  in  my  country  retreat, 
under  an  old  cedar.  For  two  hours  I  have  been  idly  wandering 
around  the  woods  and  pond,  lugging  my  chair,  picking  out  choice 
spots  to  sit  awhile  —  then  up  and  slowly  on  again.  All  is  peace  here. 
Of  course,  none  of  the  summer  noises  or  vitality;  to-day  hardly  even 
the  winter  ones.  I  amuse  myself  by  exercising  my  voice  in  recitations, 
and  in  ringing  the  changes  on  all  the  vocal  and  alphabetical  sounds. 
Not  even  an  echo  ;  only  the  cawing  of  a  solitary  crow,  flying  at  some 
distance.  The  pond  is  one  bright,  flat  spread,  without  a  ripple  —  a 
vast  Claude  Lorraine  glass,  in  which  I  study  the  sky,  the  light,  the 
leafless  trees,  and  an  occasional  crow,  with  flapping  wings,  flying  over 
head.  The  brown  fields  have  a  few  white  patches  of  snow  left. 

Feb.  p. —  After  an  hour's  ramble,  now  retreating,  resting,  sitting 
close  by  the  pond,  in  a  warm  nook,  writing  this,  shelter*  d  from  the 
breeze,  just  before  noon.  The  emotional  aspects  and  influences  of 
Nature  !  I,  too,  like  the  rest,  feel  these  modern  tendencies  (from  all 
the  prevailing  intellections,  literature  and  poems,)  to  turn  everything 
to  pathos,  ennui,  morbidity,  dissatisfaction,  death.  Yet  how  clear  it 
is  to  me  that  those  are  not  the  born  results,  influences  of  Nature  at  all, 
but  of  one's  own  distorted,  sick  or  silly  soul.  Here,  amid  this  wild, 
free  scene,  how  healthy,  how  joyous,  how  clean  and  vigorous  and 
sweet  ! 

Mid-afternoon. —  One  of  my  nooks  is  south  of  the  barn,  and  here  I 
am  sitting  now,  on  a  log,  still  basking  in  the  sun,  shielded  from  the 
wind.  Near  me  are  the  cattle,  feeding  on  corn-stalks.  Occasionally 
a  cow  or  the  young  bull  (how  handsome  and  bold  he  is!)  scratches 
and  munches  the  far  end  of  the  log  on  which  I  sit.  The  fresh  milky 
odor  is  quite  perceptible,  also  the  perfume  of  hay  from  the  barn. 
The  perpetual  rustle  of  dry  corn-stalks,  the  low  sough  of  the  wind 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  103 

round  the  barn  gables,  the  grunting  of  pigs,  the  distant  whistle  of  a 
locomotive,  and  occasional  crowing  of  chanticleers,  are  the  sounds. 

Feb.  ip. —  Cold  and  sharp  last  night  —  clear  and  not  much  wind 
—  the  full  moon  shining,  and  a  fine  spread  of  constellations  and  little 
and  big  stars  —  Sirius  very  bright,  rising  early,  preceded  by  many- 
orb*  d  Orion,  glittering,  vast,  sworded,  and  chasing  with  his  dog. 
The  earth  hard  frozen,  and  a  stiff  glare  of  ice  over  the  pond. 
Attracted  by  the  calm  splendor  of  the  night,  I  attempted  a  short  walk, 
but  was  driven  back  by  the  cold.  Too  severe  for  me  also  at  9 
o'clock,  when  I  came  out  this  morning,  so  I  turn'd  back  again.  But 
now,  near  noon,  I  have  walk'd  down  the  lane,  basking  all  the  way  in 
the  sun  (this  farm  has  a  pleasant  southerly  exposure,)  and  here  I  am, 
seated  under  the  lee  of  a  bank,  close  by  the  water.  There  are  blue 
birds  already  flying  about,  and  I  hear  much  chirping  and  twittering  and 
two  or  three  real  songs,  sustain' d  quite  awhile,  in  the  mid-day  brilliance 
and  warmth.  (There  !  that  is  a  true  carol,  coming  out  boldly  and 
repeatedly,  as  if  the  singer  meant  it. )  Then  as  the  noon  strengthens, 
the  reedy  trill  of  the  robin  —  to  my  ear  the  most  cheering  of  bird- 
notes.  At  intervals,  like  bars  and  breaks  (out  of  the  low  murmur  that 
in  any  scene,  however  quiet,  is  never  entirely  absent  to  a  delicate. ear,) 
the  occasional  crunch  and  cracking  of  the  ice-glare  congeal' d  over  the 
creek,  as  it  gives  way  to  the  sunbeams  —  sometimes  with  low  sigh  — 
sometimes  with  indignant,  obstinate  tug  and  snort. 

(Robert  Burns  says  in  one  of  his  letters  :  "There  is  scarcely  any 
earthly  object  gives  me  more  —  I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it 
pleasure  —  but  something  which  exalts  me  —  something  which  enrapt 
ures  me  —  than  to  walk  in  the  shelter' d  side  of  a  wood  in  a  cloudy 
winter  day,  and  hear  the  stormy  wind  howling  among  the  trees,  and 
raving  over  the  plain.  It  is  my  best  season  of  devotion."  Some  o( 
his  most  characteristic  poems  were  composed  in  such  scenes  and 
seasons.) 

A    MEADOW    LARK       March  16. —  Fine,  clear,   dazzling  morn 
ing,  the  sun  an  hour  high,  the  air  just  tart 

enough.  What  a  stamp  in  advance  my  whole  day  receives  from  the 
song  of  that  meadow  lark  perch' d  on  a  fence-stake  twenty  rods  distant! 
Two  or  three  liquid-simple  notes,  repeated  at  intervals,  full  of  careless 
happiness  and  hope.  With  its  peculiar  shimmering  slow  progress  and 
rapid-noiseless  action  of  the  wings,  it  flies  on  a  way,  lights  on  another 
stake,  and  so  on  to  another,  shimmering  and  singing  many  minutes. 

SUNDOWN  LIGHTS     May  6,  5  P.  M.—  This  is  the  hour  for 

strange  effects  in  light  and  shade — enough 

to  make  a  colorist  go  delirious  —  long  spokes  of  molten  silver  sent  hori- 


104  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

zontally  through  the  trees  (now  in  their  brightest  tenderest  green,) 
each  leaf  and  branch  of  endless  foliage  a  lit-up  miracle,  then  lying  all 
prone  on  the  youthful-ripe,  interminable  grass,  and  giving  the  blades 
not  only  aggregate  but  individual  splendor,  in  ways  unknown  to  any 
other  hour.  I  have  particular  spots  where  I  get  these  effects  in  their 
perfection.  One  broad  splash  lies  on  the  water,  with  many  a  rippling 
twinkle,  offset  by  the  rapidly  deepening  black-green  murky-transparent 
shadows  behind,  and  at  intervals  all  along  the  banks.  These,  with 
great  shafts  of  horizontal  fire  thrown  among  the  trees  and  along  the 
grass  as  the  sun  lowers,  give  effects  more  and  more  peculiar,  more  and 
more  superb,  unearthly,  rich  and  dazzling. 

THOUGHTS  UN-  June  2.~ This,  is  the  fourth  day  of  a  dark 

DER  AN  OAK  —  A         northeast  storm,  wind  and  rain.      Day  be- 

DREAM  fore  yesterday  was  my  birthday.      I   have 

now  enter' d  on   my  6oth  year.      Every 

day  of  the  storm,  protected  by  overshoes  and  a  waterproof  blanket,  I 
regularly  come  down  to  the  pond,  and  ensconce  myself  under  the  lee  of 
the  great  oak  ;  I  am  here  now  writing  these  lines.  The  dark  smoke- 
color' d  clouds  roll  in  furious  silence  athwart  the  sky;  the  soft  green 
leaves  dangle  all  around  me  ;  the  wind  steadily  keeps  up  its  hoarse, 
soothing  music  over  my  head  —  Nature's  mighty  whisper.  Seated 
here  in  solitude  I  have  been  musing  over  my  life  —  connecting  events, 
dates,  as  links  of  a  chain,  neither  sadly  nor  cheerily,  but  somehow, 
to-day  here  under  the  oak,  in  the  rain,  in  an  unusually  matter-of-fact 
spirit. 

But  my  great  oak  —  sturdy,  vital,  green — five  feet  thick  at  the  butt. 
I  sit  a  great  deal  near  or  under  him.  Then  the  tulip  tree  near  by  — 
the  Apollo  of  the  woods  —  tall  and  graceful,  yet  robust  and  sinewy, 
inimitable  in  hang  of  foliage  and  throwing-out  of  limb  ;  as  if  the  beau 
teous,  vital,  leafy  creature  could  walk,  if  it  only  would.  (I  had  a  sort 
of  dream-trance  the  other  day,  in  which  I  saw  my  favorite  trees  step 
out  and  promenade  up,  down  and  around,  very  curiously  —  with  a 
whisper  from  one,  leaning  down  as  he  pass'd  me,  We  do  all  tbis  on  the 
present  occasion,  exceptionally,  just  for  you.) 

CLOVER  AND  HAY      July  j<t,  4tb,  ^tb.—  Clear,  hot,  favorable 

PERFUME  weather — has  been  a  good  summer —  the 

growth  of  clover  and   grass  now  generally 

mow'd.  The  familiar  delicious  perfume  fills  the  barns  and  lanes.  As 
you  go  along  you  see  the  fields  of  grayish  white  slightly  tinged  with 
yellow,  the  loosely  stack' d  grain,  the  slow-moving  wagons  passing,  and 
farmers  in  the  fields  with  stout  boys  pitching  and  loading  the  sheaves. 
The  corn  is  about  beginning  to  tassel.  All  over  the  middle  and  south- 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  105 

ern  states  the  spear-shaped  battalia,  multitudinous,  curving,  flaunting 
—  long,  glossy,  dark-green  plumes  for  the  great  horseman,  earth.  I 
hear  the  cheery  notes  of  my  old  acquaintance  Tommy  quail  ;  but  too 
late  for  the  whip-poor-will,  (though  I  heard  one  solitary  lingerer  night 
before  last.)  I  watch  the  broad  majestic  flight  of  a  turkey-buzzard, 
sometimes  high  up,  sometimes  low  enough  to  see  the  lines  of  his  form, 
even  his  spread  quills,  in  relief  against  the  sky.  Once  or  twice  lately  I 
have  seen  an  eagle  here  at  early  candle-light  flying  low. 

AN  UNKNOWN  June  75.— To-day  I  noticed  a  new  large 

bird,    size   of  a    nearly    grown     hen  —  a 

haughty,  white-bodied  dark-wing'd  hawk  —  I  suppose  a  hawk  from  his 
bill  and  general  look  —  only  he  had  a  clear,  loud,  quite  musical,  sort 
of  bell-like  call,  which  he  repeated  again  and  again,  at  intervals,  from 
a  lofty  dead  tree-top,  overhanging  the  water.  Sat  there  a  long  time, 
and  I  on  the  opposite  bank  watching  him.  Then  he  darted  down, 
skimming  pretty  close  to  the  stream — rose  slowly,  a  magnificent  sight, 
and  sail'd  with  steady  wide-spread  wings,  no  flapping  at  all,  up  and 
down  the  pond  two  or  three  times,  near  me,  in  circles  in  clear  sight, 
as  if  for  my  delectation.  Once  he  came  quite  close  over  my  head  ; 
I  saw  plainly  his  hook'd  bill  and  hard  restless  eyes. 

BIRD-WHISTLING  How   much   music  (wild,  simple,  savage, 

doubtless,  but   so  tart-sweet,)  there  is  in 

mere  whistling.  It  is  four-fifths  of  the  utterance  of  birds.  There 
are  all  sorts  and  styles.  For  the  last  half-hour,  now,  while  I  have 
been  sitting  here,  some  feather' d  fellow  away  off  in  the  bushes 
has  been  repeating  over  and  over  again  what  I  may  call  a  kind  of  throb 
bing  whistle.  And  now  a  bird  about  the  robin  size  has  just  appear' d, 
all  mulberry  red,  flitting  among  the  bushes — head,  wings,  body,  deep 
red,  not  very  bright  —  no  song,  as  I  have  heard.  ^  o'clock:  There 
is  a  real  concert  going  on  around  me  —  a  dozen  different  birds  pitching 
in  with  a  will.  There  have  been  occasional  rains,  and  the  growths  all 
show  its  vivifying  influences.  As  I  finish  this,  seated  on  a  log  close  by 
the  pond-edge,  much  chirping  and  trilling  in  the  distance,  and  a 
feather' d  recluse  in  the  woods  near  by  is  singing  deliciously — not  many 
notes,  but  full  of  music  of  almost  human  sympathy  —  continuing  for  a 
long,  long  while. 

HORSE-MINT  Aug.    22.—  Not    a    human    being,    and 

hardly    the    evidence    of  one,    in    sight. 

After  my  brief  semi-daily  bath,  I  sit  here  for  a  bit,  the  brook  musically 
brawling,  to  the  chromatic  tones  of  a  fretful  cat-bird  somewhere  off  in 
the  bushes.  On  my  walk  hither  two  hours  since,  through  fields  and 


io6  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  old  lane,  I  stopt  to  view,  now  the  sky,  now  the  mile-off  woods 
on  the  hill,  and  now  the  apple  orchards.  What  a  contrast  from  New 
York's  or  Philadelphia's  streets!  Everywhere  great  patches  of  dingy- 
blossom' d  horse-mint  wafting  a  spicy  odor  through  the  air,  (especially 
evenings. )  Everywhere  the  flowering  boneset,  and  the  rose-bloom  of 
the  wild  bean. 

THREE  OF  US  July  14.—  My  two  kingfishers  still  haunt 

the  pond.      In  the  bright  sun  and  breeze 

and  perfect  temperature  of  to-day,  noon,  I  am  sitting  here  by  one  of 
the  gurgling  brooks,  dipping  a  French  water-pen  in  the  limpid  crystal, 
and  using  it  to  write  these  lines,  again  watching  the  feather' d  twain,  as 
they  fly  and  sport  athwart  the  water,  so  close,  almost  touching  into  its 
surface.  Indeed  there  seem  to  be  three  of  us.  For  nearly  an  hour  I 
indolently  look  and  join  them  while  they  dart  and  turn  and  take  their 
airy  gambols,  sometimes  far  up  the  creek  disappearing  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  surely  returning  again,  and  performing  most  of  their 
flight  within  sight  of  me,  as  if  they  knew  I  appreciated  and  absorb' d 
their  vitality,  spirituality,  faithfulness,  and  the  rapid,  vanishing,  delicate 
lines  of  moving  yet  quiet  electricity  they  draw  for  me  across  the  spread 
of  the  grass,  the  trees,  and  the  blue  sky.  While  the  brook  babbles, 
babbles,  and  the  shadows  of  the  boughs  dapple  in  the  sunshine  around 
me,  and  the  cool  west-by-nor'  -west  wind  faintly  soughs  in  the  thick  bushes 
and  tree  tops. 

Among  the  objects  of  beauty  and  interest  now  beginning  to  appear 
quite  plentifully  in  this  secluded  spot,  I  notice  the  humming-bird,  the 
dragon-fly  with  its  wings  of  slate-color' d  guaze,  and  many  varieties  of 
beautiful  and  plain  butterflies,  idly  flapping  among  the  plants  and  wild 
posies.  The  mullein  has  shot  up  out  of  its  nest  of  broad  leaves,  to  a 
tall  stalk  towering  sometimes  five  or  six  feet  high,  now  studded  with 
knobs  of  golden  blossoms.  The  milk- weed,  (I  see  a  great  gorgeous 
creature  of  gamboge  and  black  lighting  on  one  as  I  write, )  is  in  flower, 
with  its  delicate  red  fringe  ;  and  there  are  profuse  clusters  of  a  feathery 
blossom  waving  in  the  wind  on  taper  stems.  I  see  lots  of  these  and 
much  else  in  every  direction,  as  I  saunter  or  sit.  For  the  last  half  hour 
a  bird  has  persistently  kept  up  a  simple,  sweet,  melodious  song,  from 
the  bushes.  (I  have  a  positive  conviction  that  some  of  these  birds  sing, 
and  others  fly  and  flirt  about  here  for  my  special  benefit.) 

DEATH  OF  WIL-  New  York  City.  —  Came  on  from  West 

LIAM  CULLEN  Philadelphia,  June  1 3,  in  the  2  p.  M.  train 

BRYANT  to  Jersey  City,  and  so  across  and  to  my 

friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  H.  J.,  and  their 
large  house,  large  family  (and  large  hearts,)  amid  which  I  feel  at  home, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  107 

at  peace  —  away  up  on  Fifth  avenue,  near  Eighty-sixth  street,  quiet, 
breezy,  overlooking  the  dense  woody  fringe  of  the  park  —  plenty  of 
space  and  sky,  birds  chirping,  and  air  comparatively  fresh  and  odorless. 
Two  hours  before  starting,  saw  the  announcement  of  William  Cullen 
Bryant's  funeral,  and  felt  a  strong  desire  to  attend.  I  had  known  Mr. 
Bryant  over  thirty  years  ago,  and  he  had  been  markedly  kind  to  me. 
Off  and  on,  along  that  time  for  years  as  they  pass'd,  we  met  and 
chatted  together.  I  thought  him  very  sociable  in  his  way,  and  a  man 
to  become  attach' d  to.  We  were  both  walkers,  and  when  I  work'd  in 
Brooklyn  he  several  times  came  over,  middle  of  afternoons,  and  we 
took  rambles  miles  long,  till  dark,  out  towards  Bedford  or  Flatbush,  in 
company.  On  these  occasions  he  gave  me  clear  accounts  of  scenes  in 
Europe  —  the  cities,  looks,  architecture,  art,  especially  Italy  —  where 
he  had  traveled  a  good  deal. 

June  14.  —  The  Funeral.  —  And  so  the  good,  stainless,  noble  old 
citizen  and  poet  lies  in  the  closed  coffin  there  —  and  this  is  his  funeral. 
A  solemn,  impressive,  simple  scene,  to  spirit  and  senses.  The  remark 
able  gathering  of  gray  heads,  celebrities  —  the  finely  render' d  anthem, 
and  other  music  —  the  church,  dim  even  now  at  approaching  noon,  in 
its  light  from  the  mellow-stain' d  windows  —  the  pronounc'd  eulogy  on 
the  bard  who  loved  Nature  so  fondly,  and  sung  so  well  her  shows  and 
seasons  —  ending  with  these  appropriate  well-known  lines: 

I  gazed  upon  the  glorious  sky, 

And  the  green  mountains  round, 
And  thought  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  joyous  tune, 

And  groves  a  cheerful  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

JAUNT  UP  THE  June  2Otb.—On  the  "Mary  Powell," 

HUDSON  enjoy 'd  every  thing  beyond  precedent.    The 

delicious  tender  summer  day,  just   warm 

enough  —  the  constantly  changing  but  ever  beautiful  panorama  on  both 
sides  of  the  river — (went  up  near  a  hundred  miles)  — the  high  straight 
walls  of  the  stony  Palisades  —  beautiful  Yonkers,  and  beautiful  Irvington 
—  the  never-ending  hills,  mostly  in  rounded  lines,  swathed  with  ver 
dure,  —  the  distant  turns,  like  great  shoulders  in  blue  veils  —  the  fre 
quent  gray  and  brown  of  the  tall-rising  rocks  —  the  river  itself,  now 
narrowing,  now  expanding  —  the  white  sails  of  the  many  sloops, 
yachts,  &c.,  some  near,  some  in  the  distance  —  the  rapid  succession  of 
handsome  villages  and  cities,  (our  boat  is  a  swift  traveler,  and  makes 


io8  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

few  stops)  —  the  Race  —  picturesque  West  Point,  and  indeed  all  along 
—  the  costly  and  often  turreted  mansions  forever  showing  in  some 
cheery  light  color,  through  the  woods  —  make  up  the  scene. 

HAPPINESS  AND  June  21.  —  Here  I  am,  on  the  west  bank 

RASPBERRIES  of  the  Hudson,   80  miles  north  of  New 

York,    near    Esopus,    at    the    handsome, 

roomy,  honeysuckle-and-rose-enbower'd  cottage  of  John  Burroughs. 
The  place,  the  perfect  June  days  and  nights,  (leaning  toward  crisp  and 
cool,)  the  hospitality  of  J.  and  Mrs.  B.,  the  air,  the  fruit,  (especially 
my  favorite  dish,  currants  and  raspberries,  mixed,  sugar' d,  fresh  and 
ripe  from  the  bushes  —  I  pick  Jem  myself) — the  room  I  occupy  at 
night,  the  perfect  bed,  the  window  giving  an  ample  view  of  the  Hud 
son  and  the  opposite  shores,  so  wonderful  toward  sunset,  and  the  roll 
ing  music  of  the  RR.  trains,  far  over  there  —  the  peaceful  rest  —  the 
early  Venus-heralded  dawn  —  the  noiseless  splash  of  sunrise,  the  light 
and  warmth  indescribably  glorious,  in  which,  (soon  as  the  sun  is  well 
up, )  I  have  a  capital  rubbing  and  rasping  with  the  flesh-brush  —  with 
an  extra  scour  on  the  back  by  Al.  J.,  who  is  here  with  us  —  all 
inspiriting  my  invalid  frame  with  new  life,  for  the  day.  Then,  after 
some  whiffs  of  morning  air,  the  delicious  coffee  of  Mrs.  B.,  with  the 
cream,  strawberries,  and  many  substantials,  for  breakfast. 

A  SPECIMEN  June  22. — This  afternoon  we  went  out 

TRAMP  FAMILY  (J.  B.,    Al.    and    I)    on   quite   a    drive 

around  the   country.     The  scenery,    the 

perpetual  stone  fences,  (some  venerable  old  fellows,  dark-spotted  with 
lichens)  —  the  many  fine  locust-trees  —  the  runs  of  brawling  water, 
often  over  descents  of  rock  —  these,  and  lots  else.  It  is  lucky  the 
roads  are  first-rate  here,  (as  they  are,)  for  it  is  up  or  down  hill 
everywhere,  and  sometimes  steep  enough.  B.  has  a  tip-top  horse, 
strong,  young,  and  both  gentle  and  fast.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
waste  land  and  hills  on  the  river  edge  of  Ulster  county,  with  a 
wonderful  luxuriance  of  wild  flowers  and  bushes  —  and  it  seems  to  me 
I  never  saw  more  vitality  of  trees  —  eloquent  hemlocks,  plenty  of 
locusts  and  fine  maples,  and  the  balm  of  Gilead,  giving  out  aroma. 
In  the  fields  and  along  the  road-sides  unusual  crops  of  the  tall-stemm'd 
wild  daisy,  white  as  milk  and  yellow  as  gold. 

We  pass' d  quite  a  number  of  tramps,  singly  or  in  couples  —  one 
squad,  a  family  in  a  rickety  one-horse  wagon,  with  some  baskets 
evidently  their  work  and  trade  —  the  man  seated  on  a  low  board,  in 
front,  driving  —  the  gauntish  woman  by  his  side,  with  a  baby  well 
bundled  in  her  arms,  its  little  red  feet  and  lower  legs  sticking  out 
right  towards  us  as  we  pass'd  —  and  in  the  wagon  behind,  we  saw 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  109 

two  (or  three)  crouching  little  children.  It  was  a  queer,  taking, 
rather  sad  picture.  If  I  had  been  alone  and  on  foot,  I  should  have 
stopp'd  and  held  confab.  But  on  our  return  nearly  two  hours  after 
ward,  we  found  them  a  ways  further  along  the  same  road,  in  a 
lonesome  open  spot,  haul'd  aside,  unhitch'd,  and  evidently  going  to 
camp  for  the  night.  The  freed  horse  was  not  far  off,  quietly  cropping 
the  grass.  The  man  was  busy  at  the  wagon,  the  boy  had  gather' d 
some  dry  wood,  and  was  making  a  fire  —  and  as  we  went  a  little 
further  we  met  the  woman  afoot.  I  could  not  see  her  face,  in  its  great 
sun-bonnet,  but  somehow  her  figure  and  gait  told  misery,  terror, 
destitution.  She  had  the  rag-bundled,  half-starv'd  infant  still  in  her 
arms,  and  in  her  hands  held  two  or  three  baskets,  which  she  had 
evidently  taken  to  the  next  house  for  sale.  A  little  barefoot  five-year 
old  girl-child,  with  fine  eyes,  trotted  behind  her,  clutching  her  gown. 
We  stopp'd,  asking  about  the  baskets,  which  we  bought.  As  we 
paid  the  money,  she  kept  her  face  hidden  in  the  recesses  of  her  bonnet. 
Then  as  we  started,  and  stopp'd  again,  Al.,  (whose  sympathies  were 
evidently  arous'd,)  went  back  to  the  camping  group  to  get  another 
basket.  He  caught  a  look  of  her  face,  and  talk'd  with  her  a  little. 
Eyes,  voice  and  manner  were  those  of  a  corpse,  animated  by  elec 
tricity.  She  was  quite  young  —  the  man  she  was  traveling  with, 
middle-aged.  Poor  woman  —  what  story  was  it,  out  of  her  fortunes, 
to  account  for  that  inexpressibly  scared  way,  those  glassy  eyes,  and 
that  hollow  voice  ? 

MANHATTAN  June  23.  —Returned  to  New  York  last 

FROM  THE  BAY  night.      Out  to-day  on  the   waters   for  a 

sail  in  the  wide   bay,  southeast    of  Staten 

island  —  a  rough,  tossing  ride,  and  a  free  sight  —  the  long  stretch  of 
Sandy  Hook,  the  highlands  of  Navesink,  and  the  many  vessels  out 
ward  and  inward  bound.  We  came  up  through  the  midst  of  all, 
in  the  full  sun.  I  especially  enjoy 'd  the  last  hour  or  two.  A 
moderate  sea-breeze  had  set  in  ;  yet  over  the  city,  and  the  waters 
adjacent,  was  a  thin  haze,  concealing  nothing,  only  adding  to  the 
beauty.  From  my  point  of  view,  as  I  write  amid  the  soft  breeze, 
with  a  sea-temperature,  surely  nothing  on  earth  of  its  kind  can  go 
beyond  this  show.  To  the  left  the  North  river  with  its  far  vista  — 
nearer,  three  or  four  war-ships,  anchor' d  peacefully  —  the  Jersey  side, 
the  banks  of  Weehawken,  the  Palisades,  and  the  gradually  receding 
blue,  lost  in  the  distance  —  to  the  right  the  East  river  —  the  mast- 
hemm'd  shores — the  grand  obelisk-like  towers  of  the  bridge,  one  on 
either  side,  in  haze,  yet  plainly  defin'd,  giant  brothers  twain,  throw 
ing  free  graceful  interlinking  loops  high  across  the  tumbled  tumultuous 
current  below — (the  tide  is  just  changing  to  its  ebb) — the  broad 


no  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

water-spread  everywhere  crowded  —  no,  not  crowded,  but  thick  as 
stars  in  the  sky  —  with  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  sail  and  steam  vessels, 
plying  ferry-boats,  arriving  and  departing  coasters,  great  ocean  Dons, 
iron-black,  modern,  magnificent  in  size  and  power,  fill'd  with  their 
incalculable  value  of  human  life  and  precious  merchandise  —  with  here 
and  there,  above  all,  those  daring,  careening  things  of  grace  and 
wonder,  those  white  and  shaded  swift-darting  fish-birds,  (I  wonder  if 
shore  or  sea  elsewhere  can  outvie  them,)  ever  with  their  slanting  spars, 
and  fierce,  pure,  hawk-like  beauty  and  motion  — first-class  New  York 
sloop  or  schooner  yachts,  sailing,  this  fine  day,  the  free  sea  in  a  good 
wind.  And  rising  out  of  the  midst,  tall-topt,  ship-hemm'd,  modern, 
American,  yet  strangely  oriental,  V-shaped  Manhattan,  with  its 
compact  mass,  its  spires,  its  cloud-touching  edifices  group*  d  at  the 
centre  —  the  green  of  the  trees,  and  all  the  white,  brown  and  gray 
of  the  architecture  well  blended,  as  I  see  it,  under  a  miracle  of  limpid 
sky,  delicious  light  of  heaven  above,  and  June  haze  on  the  surface 
below. 

HUMAN    AND   HE-      The  general  subjective  view  of  New  York 

ROIC    NEW   YORK        and  Brooklyn  —  (will  not  the  time  hasten 

when  the  two  shall  be  municipally  united 

in  one,  and  named  Manhattan  ?)  —  what  I  may  call  the  human  in 
terior  and  exterior  of  these  great  seething  oceanic  populations,  as  I 
get  it  in  this  visit,  is  to  me  best  of  all.  After  an  absence  of  many 
years,  (I  went  away  at  the  outbreak  of  the  secession  war,  and  have 
never  been  back  to  stay  since,)  again  I  resume  with  curiosity  the 
crowds,  the  streets,  I  knew  so  well,  Broadway,  the  ferries,  the  west 
side  of  the  city,  democratic  Bowery  —  human  appearances  and  manners 
as  seen  in  all  these,  and  along  the  wharves,  and  in  the  perpetual  travel 
of  the  horse-cars,  or  the  crowded  excursion  steamers,  or  in  Wall  and 
Nassau  streets  by  day —  in  the  places  of  amusement  at  night  —  bubbling 
and  whirling  and  moving  like  its  own  environment  of  waters  —  endless 
humanity  in  all  phases  —  Brooklyn  also  —  taken  in  for  the  last  three 
weeks.  No  need  to  specify  minutely  —  enough  to  say  that  (making 
all  allowances  for  the  shadows  and  side-streaks  of  a  million-headed- 
city)  the  brief  total  of  the  impressions,  the  human  qualities,  of  these 
vast  cities,  is  to  me  comforting,  even  heroic,  beyond  statement.  Alert 
ness,  generally  fine  physique,  clear  eyes  that  look  straight  at  you,  a 
singular  combination  of  reticence  and  self-possession,  with  good  nature 
and  friendliness  —  a  prevailing  range  of  according  manners,  taste  and 
intellect,  surely  beyond  any  elsewhere  upon  earth  —  and  a  palpable  out 
cropping  of  that  personal  comradeship  I  look  forward  to  as  the  subtlest, 
strongest  future  hold  of  this  many-item*  d  Union  —  are  not  only  con 
stantly  visible  here  in  these  mighty  channels  of  men,  but  they  form  the 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  in 

rule  and  average.  To-day,  I  should  say  —  defiant  of  cynics  and  pes 
simists,  and  with  a  full  knowledge  of  all  their  exceptions  —  an  appre 
ciative  and  perceptive  study  of  the  current  humanity  of  New  York 
gives  the  directest  proof  yet  of  successful  Democracy,  and  of  the  solu 
tion  of  that  paradox,  the  eligibility  of  the  free  and  fully  developed 
individual  with  the  paramount  aggregate.  In  old  age,  lame  and  sick, 
pondering  for  years  on  many  a  doubt  and  danger  for  this  republic  of 
ours  —  fully  aware  of  all  that  can  be  said  on  the  other  side  —  I  find  in 
this  visit  to  New  York,  and  the  daily  contact  and  rapport  with  its 
myriad  people,  on  the  scale  of  the  oceans  and  tides,  the  best,  most 
effective  medicine  my  soul  has  yet  partaken  —  the  grandest  physical 
habitat  and  surroundings  of  land  and  water  the  globe  affords  —  namely, 
Manhattan  island  and  Brooklyn,  which  the  future  shall  join  in  one  city 
—  city  of  superb  democracy,  amid  superb  surroundings. 

HOURS  FOR  THE  July  22d,  1878.  —Living  down  in  the 
SOUL  country  again.  A  wonderful  conjunction 

of  all  that  goes  to  make  those  sometime 

miracle-hours  after  sunset  —  so  near  and  yet  so  far.  Perfect,  or  nearly 
perfect  days,  I  notice,  are  not  so  very  uncommon;  but  the  combina 
tions  that  make  perfect  nights  are  few,  even  in  a  life  time.  We  have 
one  of  those  perfections  to-night.  Sunset  left  things  pretty  clear;  the 
larger  stars  were  visible  soon  as  the  shades  allow' d.  A  while  after  8, 
three  or  four  great  black  clouds  suddenly  rose,  seemingly  from  different 
points,  and  sweeping  with  broad  swirls  of  wind  but  no  thunder,  under- 
spread  the  orbs  from  view  everywhere,  and  indicated  a  violent  heat- 
storm.  But  without  storm,  clouds,  blackness  and  all,  sped  and  vanish' d 
as  suddenly  as  they  had  risen;  and  from  a  little  after  9  till  II  the 
atmosphere  and  the  whole  show  above  were  in  that  state  of  exceptional 
clearness  and  glory  just  alluded  to.  In  the  northwest  turned  the  Great 
Dipper  with  its  pointers  round  the  Cynosure.  A  little  south  of  east 
the  constellation  of  the  Scorpion  was  fully  up,  with  red  Antares  glow 
ing  in  its  neck;  while  dominating,  majestic  Jupiter  swam,  an  hour  and 
a  half  risen,  in  the  east  —  (no  moon  till  after  1 1 . )  A  large  part  of 
the  sky  seem'd  just  laid  in  great  splashes  of  phosphorus.  You  could 
look  deeper  in,  farther  through,  than  usual;  the  orbs  thick  as  heads  of 
wheat  in  a  field.  Not  that  there  was  any  special  brilliancy  either  — 
nothing  near  as  sharp  as  I  have  seen  of  keen  winter  nights,  but  a  curious 
general  luminousness  throughout  to  sight,  sense,  and  soul.  The  latter 
had  much  to  do  with  it.  (I  am  convinced  there  are  hours  of  Nature, 
especially  of  the  atmosphere,  mornings  and  evenings,  address' d  to  the 
soul.  Night  transcends,  for  that  purpose,  what  the  proudest  day  can 
do.)  Now,  indeed,  if  never  before,  the  heavens  declared  the  glory  of 
God.  It  was  to  the  full  sky  of  the  Bible,  of  Arabia,  of  the  prophets, 


ii2  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  of  the  oldest  poems.  There,  in  abstraction  and  stillness,  (I  had 
gone  off  by  myself  to  absorb  the  scene,  to  have  the  spell  unbroken,)  the 
copiousness,  the  removedness,  vitality,  loose-clear-crowdedness,  of  that 
stellar  concave  spreading  overhead,  softly  absorb' d  into  me,  rising  so 
free,  interminably  high,  stretching  east,  west,  north,  south  —  and  I, 
though  but  a  point  in  the  centre  below,  embodying  all. 

As  if  for  the  first  time,  indeed,  creation  noiselessly  sank  into  and 
through  me  its  placid  and  untellable  lesson,  beyond  —  O,  so  infinitely 

beyond  ! anything  from  art,  books,  sermons,  or  from  science,  old  or 

new.  The  spirit's  hour  —  religion's  hour  —  the  visible  suggestion  of 
God  in  space  and  time  —  now  once  definitely  indicated,  if  never  again. 
The  untold  pointed  at  —  the  heavens  all  paved  with  it.  The  Milky 
Way,  as  if  some  superhuman  symphony,  some  ode  of  universal  vague 
ness,  disdaining  syllable  and  sound  — a  flashing  glance  of  Deity, 
address' d  to  the  soul.  All  silently  —  the  indescribable  night  and  stars 
—  far  off  and  silently. 

THE  DAWN. July  23. —  This  morning,  between   one  and  two 

hours  before  sunrise,  a  spectacle  wrought  on  the  same  background,  yet 
of  quite  different  beauty  and  meaning.  The  moon  well  up  in  the 
heavens,  and  past  her  half,  is  shining  brightly  — the  air  and  sky  of  that 
cynical-clear,  Minerva-like  quality,  virgin  cool  — not  the  weight  of 
sentiment  or  mystery,  or  passion's  ecstasy  indefinable— not  the  relig 
ious  sense,  the  varied  All,  distill' d  and  sublimated  into  one,  of  the 
night  just  described.  Every  star  now  clear-cut,  showing  for  just  what 
it  is,  there  in  the  colorless  ether.  The  character  of  the  heralded 
morning,  ineffably  sweet  and  fresh  and  limpid,  but  for  the  Aesthetic 
sense  alone,  and  for  purity  without  sentiment.  I  have  itemized  the 
night  — but  dare  I  attempt  the  cloudless  dawn  ?  (What  subtle  tie  is 
this  between  one's  soul  and  the  break  of  day  ?  Alike,  and  yet  no  two 
nights  or  morning  shows  ever  exactly  alike.)  Preceded  by  an  im 
mense  star,  almost  unearthly  in  its  effusion  of  white  splendor,  with  two 
or  three  long  unequal  spoke-rays  of  diamond  radiance,  shedding  down 
through  the  fresh  morning  air  below  — an  hour  of  this,  and  then  the 

sunrise.  . 

THE  EAST.— What  a  subject  for  a  poem  !  Indeed,  where  else  a 
more  pregnant,  more  splendid  one  ?  Where  one  more  idealistic-real, 
more  subtle,  more  sensuous-delicate  ?  The  East,  answering  all  lands, 
all  ages,  peoples;  touching  all  senses,  here,  immediate,  now— and  yet 
so  indescribably  far  off— such  retrospect  !  The  East— long-stretching 
—  so  losing  itself— the  orient,  the  gardens  of  Asia,  the  womb  of  his 
tory  and  song  — forth-issuing  all  those  strange,  dim  cavalcades 

Florid  with  blood,  pensive,  rapt  with  musings,  hot  with  passion. 
Sultry  with  perfume,  with  ample  and  flowing  garments, 
With  sunburnt  visage,  intense  soul  and  glittering  eyes. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  113 

Always  the  East  —  old,  how  incalculably  old  !  And  yet  here  the 
same  —  ours  yet,  fresh  as  a  rose,  to  every  morning,  every  life,  to-day 
—  and  always  will  be. 

Sept.  //.  Another  presentation  —  same  theme  —  just  before  sun 
rise  again,  (a  favorite  hour  with  me.)  The  clear  gray  sky,  a  faint 
glow  in  the  dull  liver-color  of  the  east,  the  cool  fresh  odor  and  the 

moisture  —  the  cattle  and  horses  off  there  grazing  in  the  fields the 

star  Venus  again,  two  hours  high.  For  sounds,  the  chirping  of  crickets 
in  the  grass,  the  clarion  of  chanticleer,  and  the  distant  cawing  of  an 
early  crow.  Quietly  over  the  dense  fringe  of  cedars  and  pines  rises 
that  dazzling,  red,  transparent  disk  of  flame,  and  the  low  sheets  of 
white  vapor  roll  and  roll  into  dissolution. 

THE  MOON. —  May  18. —  I  went  to  bed  early  last  night,  but 
found  myself  waked  shortly  after  1 2,  and,  turning  awhile,  sleepless  and 
mentally  feverish,  I  rose,  dress* d  myself,  sallied  forth  and  walk'd  down 
the  lane.  The  full  moon,  some  three  or  four  hours  up  —  a  sprinkle 
of  light  and  less-light  clouds  just  lazily  moving — Jupiter  an  hour  high 
in  the  east,  and  here  and  there  throughout  the  heavens  a  random  star 

appearing  and  disappearing.      So  beautifully  veiled  and  varied the 

air,  with  that  early-summer  perfume,  not   at   all    damp  or  raw at 

times  Luna  languidly  emerging  in  richest  brightness  for  minutes,  and 
then  partially  envelop' d  again.  Far  off  a  poor  whip-poor-will  plied 
his  notes  incessantly.  It  was  that  silent  time  between  I  and  3. 

The  rare  nocturnal  scene,  how  soon  it  sooth' d  and  pacified  me !  Is 
there  not  something  about  the  moon,  some  relation  or  reminder,  which 
no  poem  or  literature  has  yet  caught  ?  (In  very  old  and  primitive 
ballads  I  have  come  across  lines  or  asides  that  suggest  it.)  After  a 
while  the  clouds  mostly  clear' d,  and  as  the  moon  swam  on,  she  carried, 
shimmering  and  shifting,  delicate  color-effects  of  pellucid  green  and 
tawny  vapor.  Let  me  conclude  this  part  with  an  extract,  (some 
writer  in  the  "Tribune,"  May  16,  1878  :) 

No  one  ever  gets  tired  of  the  moon.  Goddess  that  she  is  by  dower  of 
her  eternal  beauty,  she  is  a  true  woman  by  her  tact  —  knows  the  charm  of 
being  seldom  seen,  of  coming  by  surprise  and  staying  but  a  little  while  j 
never  wears  the  same  dress  two  nights  running,  nor  all  night  the  same  way  } 
commends  herself  to  the  matter-of-fact  people  by  her  usefulness,  and  makes 
her  uselessness  adored  by  poets,  artists,  and  all  lovers  in  all  lands  ;  lends 
herself  to  every  symbolism  and  to  every  emblem  j  is  Diana's  bow  and 
Venus' s  mirror  and  Mary's  throne;  is  a  sickle,  a  scarf,  an  eyebrow,  his 
:ace^or  her  face,  and  look'd  at  by  her  or  by  him  j  is  the  madman's  hell,  the 
poet  s  heaven,  the  baby's  toy,  the  philosopher's  study  ;  and  while  her  ad 
mirers  follow  her  footsteps,  and  hang  on  her  lovely  looks,  she  knows  how 
o  keep  her  woman's  secret  — her  other  side  — unguess'd  and  unguessable. 

Furthermore.       February  19,  1880.— Just  before   10  p.  M.    cold 


n4  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  entirely  clear  again,  the  show  overhead,  bearing  southwest,  of 
wonderful  and  crowded  magnificence.  The  moon  in  her  third  quarter 
—  the  clusters  of  the  Hyades  and  Pleiades,  with  the  planet  Mars  be 
tween — in  full  crossing  sprawl  in  the  sky  the  great  Egyptian  X, 
(Sirius,  Procyon,  and  the  main  stars  in  the  constellations  of  the  Ship, 
the  Dove,  and  of  Orion;)  just  north  of  east  Bootes,  and  in  his  knee 
Arcturus,  an  hour  high,  mounting  the  heaven,  ambitiously  large  and 
sparkling,  as  if  he  meant  to  challenge  with  Sirius  the  stellar  supremacy. 
With  the  sentiment  of  the  stars  and  moon  such  nights  I  get  all  the 
free  margins  and  indefiniteness  of  music  or  poetry,  fused  in  geometry's 
utmost  exactness. 

STRAW-COLOR'D  Aug.  4.  —  A  pretty  sight  !  Where  I  sit 
AND  OTHER  in  the  shade  —  a  warm  day,  the  sun  shin- 

PSYCHES  ing  from  cloudless  skies,  the  forenoon  well 

advanc'd —  I  look  over  a  ten-acre  field  of 

luxuriant  clover-hay,  (the  second  crop}  —  the  livid-ripe  red  blossoms 
and  dabs  of  August  brown  thickly  spotting  the  prevailing  dark-green. 
Over  all  flutter  myriads  of  light-yellow  butterflies,  mostly  skimming 
along  the  surface,  dipping  and  oscillating,  giving  a  curious  animation  to 
the  scene.  The  beautiful,  spiritual  insects  !  straw-color' d  Psyches  ! 
Occasionally  one  of  them  leaves  his  mates,  and  mounts,  perhaps 
spirally,  perhaps  in  a  straight  line  in  the  air,  fluttering  up,  up,  till  liter 
ally  out  of  sight.  In  the  lane  as  I  came  along  just  now  I  noticed  one 
spot,  ten  feet  square  or  so,  where  more  than  a  hundred  had  collected, 
holding  a  revel,  a  gyration-dance,  or  butterfly  good-time,  winding  and 
circling,  down  and  across,  but  always  keeping  within  the  limits.  The 
little  creatures  have  come  out  all  of  a  sudden  the  last  few  days,  and  are 
now  very  plentiful.  As  I  sit  outdoors,  or  walk,  I  hardly  look  around 
without  somewhere  seeing  two  (always  two)  fluttering  through  the  air 
in  amorous  dalliance.  Then  their  inimitable  color,  their  fragility, 
peculiar  motion  —  and  that  strange,  frequent  way  of  one  leaving  the 
crowd  and  mounting  up,  up  in  the  free  ether,  and  apparently  never 
returning.  As  I  look  over  the  field,  these  yellow-wings  everywhere 
mildly  sparkling,  many  snowy  blossoms  of  the  wild  carrot  gracefully 
bending  on  their  tall  and  taper  stems  —  while  for  sounds,  the  distant 
guttural  screech  of  a  flock  of  guinea-hens  comes  shrilly  yet  somehow 
musically  to  my  ears.  And  now  a  faint  growl  of  heat-thunder  in  the 
north  —  and  ever  the  low  rising  and  falling  wind-purr  from  the  tops  of 
the  maples  and  willows. 

Aug.  20.  —  Butterflies  and  butterflies,  (taking  the  place  of  the 
bumble-bees  of  three  months  since,  who  have  quite  disappear* d,)  con 
tinue  to  flit  to  and  fro,  all  sorts,  white,  yellow,  brown,  purple  —  now 
and  then  some  gorgeous  fellow  flashing  lazily  by  on  wings  like  artists' 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  115 

palettes  dabb'd  with  every  color.  Over  the  breast  of  the  pond  I  notice 
many  white  ones,  crossing,  pursuing  their  idle  capricious  flight.  Near 
where  I  sit  grows  a  tall-stemm'd  weed  topt  with  a  profusion  of  rich 
scarlet  blossoms,  on  which  the  snowy  insects  alight  and  dally,  some 
times  four  or  five  of  them  at  a  time.  By-and-by  a  humming-bird 
visits  the  same,  and  I  watch  him  coming  and  going,  daintily  balancing 
and  shimmering  about.  These  white  butterflies  give  new  beautiful 
contrasts  to  the  pure  greens  of  the  August  foliage,  (we  have  had  some 
copious  rains  lately,)  and  over  the  glistening  bronze  of  the  pond-sur 
face.  You  can  tame  even  such  insects ;  I  have  one  big  and  hand 
some  moth  down  here,  knows  and  comes  to  me,  likes  me  to  hold  him 
up  on  my  extended  hand. 

Another  Day,  later.  —  A  grand  twelve-acre  field  of  ripe  cabbages 
with  their  prevailing  hue  of  malachite  green,  and  floating-flying  over 
and  among  them  in  all  directions  myriads  of  these  same  white  butter 
flies.  As  I  came  up  the  lane  to-day  I  saw  a  living  globe  of  the  same, 
two  or  three  feet  in  diameter,  many  scores  cluster' d  together  and  roll 
ing  along  in  the  air,  adhering  to  their  ball-shape,  six  or  eight  feet 
above  the  ground. 

A  NIGHT  REMEM-  Aug.  25,  9-10  A.M. —I  sit  by  the  pond, 
BRANCE  everything  quiet,  the  broad  polish' d  sur 

face  spread  before  me  —  the  blue   of  the 

heavens  and  the  white  clouds  reflected  from  it  —  and  flitting  across, 
now  and  then,  the  reflection  of  some  flying  bird.  Last  night  I  was 
down  here  with  a  friend  till  after  midnight ;  everything  a  miracle  of 
splendor  —  the  glory  of  the  stars,  and  the  completely  rounded  moon  — 
the  passing  clouds,  silver  and  luminous-tawny  —  now  and  then  masses 
of  vapory  illuminated  scud — and  silently  by  my  side  my  dear  friend. 
The  shades  of  the  trees,  and  patches  of  moonlight  on  the  grass  —  the 
softly  blowing  breeze,  and  just-palpable  odor  of  the  neighboring  ripen 
ing  corn  —  the  indolent  and  spiritual  night,  inexpressibly  rich,  tender, 
suggestive  —  something  altogether  to  filter  through  one's  soul,  and 
nourish  and  feed  and  soothe  the  memory  long  afterwards. 

WILD  FLOWERS  This  has  been  and  is  yet  a  great  season 

for  wild  flowers  ;  oceans  of  them  line  the 

roads  through  the  woods,  border  the  edges  of  the  water-runlets,  grow 
all  along  the  old  fences,  and  are  scatter' d  in  profusion  over  the  fields. 
An  eight-petal' d  blossom  of  gold-yellow,  clear  and  bright,  with  a 
brown  tuft  in  the  middle,  nearly  as  large  as  a  silver  half-dollar,  is  very 
common  ;  yesterday  on  a  long  drive  I  noticed  it  thickly  lining  the 
borders  of  the  brooks  everywhere.  Then  there  is  a  beautiful  weed 
cover' d  with  blue  flowers,  (the  blue  of  the  old  Chinese  teacups 


n6  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

treasured  by  our  grand-aunts,)  I  am  continually  stopping  to  admire  — 
a  little  larger  than  a  dime,  and  very  plentiful.  White,  however,  is 
the  prevailing  color.  The  wild  carrot  I  have  spoken  of;  also  the 
fragrant  life-everlasting.  But  there  are  all  hues  and  beauties,  especi 
ally  on  the  frequent  tracts  of  half-opened  scrub-oak  and  dwarf  cedar 
hereabout  —  wild  asters  of  all  colors.  Notwithstanding  the  frost- 
touch  the  hardy  little  chaps  maintain  themselves  in  all  their  bloom. 
The  tree-leaves,  too,  some  of  them  are  beginning  to  turn  yellow  or 
drab  or  dull  green.  The  deep  wine- col  or  of  the  sumachs  and  gum- 
trees  is  already  visible,  and  the  straw-color  of  the  dog-wood  and 
beech.  Let  me  give  the  names  of  some  of  these  perennial  blossoms 
and  friendly  weeds  I  have  made  acquaintance  with  hereabout  one  sea 
son  or  another  in  my  walks  : 

wild  azalea,  dandelions, 

wild  honeysuckle,  yarrow, 

wild  roses,  coreopsis, 

golden  rod,  wild  pea, 

larkspur,  woodbine, 

early  crocus,  elderberry, 

sweet  flag,  (great  patches  of  it,)  poke-weed, 

creeper,  trumpet-flower,  sun-flower, 

scented  marjoram,  chamomile, 

snakeroot,  violets, 

Solomon's  seal,  clematis, 

sweet  balm,  bloodroot, 

mint,  (great  plenty,)  swamp  magnolia, 

wild  geranium,  milk-weed, 

wild  heliotrope,  wild  daisy,  (plenty,) 

burdock,  wild  chrysanthemum. 

A    CIVILITY   TOO         The  foregoing  reminds  me  of  something. 

LONG  NEGLECTED     As  the  individualities  I  would  mainly  por~ 

tray  have  certainly  been  slighted  by  folks 

who  make  pictures,  volumes,  poems,  out  of  them  —  as  a  faint  testi 
monial  of  my  own  gratitude  for  many  hours  of  peace  and  comfort  in 
half-sickness,  (and  not  by  any  means  sure  but  they  will  somehow  get 
wind  of  the  compliment,)  I  hereby  dedicate  the  last  half  of  these 
Specimen  Days  to  the 

bees,  glow-worms,    (swarming    mill- 
black-birds,  ions    of  them    indescribably 
dragon-flies,  strange  and  beautiful  at  night 
pond-turtles,  over  the  pond  and  creek,) 
mulleins,  tansy,  peppermint,  water-snakes, 
moths,  (great    and  little,  some             crows, 
splendid  fellows,)  millers, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  117 

mosquitoes,  cedars, 

butterflies,  tulip-trees,  (and  all  other  trees,) 

wasps  and  hornets,  and  to  the  spots  and  memories 
cat-birds,  (and  all  other  birds,)  of  those  days,  and  the  creek. 

DELAWARE    RIVER      ^r/V^,  76^9.— With  the  return  of  spring 

DAYS    AND  to  the  skies,  airs,  waters  of  the  Delaware, 

NIGHTS  return  the  sea-gulls.      I  never  tire  of  watch 

ing  their  broad  and  easy  flight,  in  spirals, 

or  as  they  oscillate  with  slow  unflapping  wings,  or  look  down  with 
curved  beak,  or  dipping  to  the  water  after  food.  The  crows,  plenty 
enough  all  through  the  winter,  have  vanish' d  with  the  ice.  Not  one 
of  them  now  to  be  seen.  The  steamboats  have  again  come  forth  — 
bustling  up,  handsome,  freshly  painted,  for  summer  work  —  the  Co 
lumbia,  the  Edwin  Forrest,  (the  Republic  not  yet  out,)  the  Reybold, 
Nelly  White,  the  Twilight,  the  Ariel,  the  Warner,  the  Perry,  the 
Taggart,  the  Jersey  Blue  —  even  the  hulky  old  Trenton  —  not  forget 
ting  those  saucy  little  bull-pups  of  the  current,  the  steamtugs. 

But  let  me  bunch  and  catalogue  the  affair — the  river  itself,  all  the 
way  from  the  sea — Cape  island  on  one  side  and  Henlopen  light  on  the 
other — up  the  broad  bay  north,  and  so  to  Philadelphia,  and  on  further 
to  Trenton;  —  the  sights  I  am  most  familiar  with,  (as  I  live  a  good 
part  of  the  time  in  Camden,  I  view  matters  from  that  outlook)  — the 
great  arrogant,  black,  full -freighted  ocean  steamers,  inward  or  outward 
bound  —  the  ample  width  here  between  the  two  cities,  intersected  by 
Windmill  island  —  an  occasional  man-of-war,  sometimes  a  foreigner,  at 
anchor,  with  her  guns  and  port-holes,  and  the  boats,  and  the  brown- 
faced  sailors,  and  the  regular  oar-strokes,  and  the  gay  crowds  of  "visit 
ing  day"  — the  frequent  large  and  handsome  three-masted  schooners, 
(a  favorite  style  of  marine  build,  hereabout  of  late  years,)  some  of  them 
new  and  very  jaunty,  with  their  white-gray  sails  and  yellow  pine  spars 
—  the  sloops  dashing  along  in  a  fair  wind —  (I  see  one  now,  coming 
up,  under  broad  canvas,  her  gaff-topsail  shining  in  the  sun,  high  and 
picturesque — what  a  thing  of  beauty  amid  the  sky  and  waters !) — the 
crowded  wharf-slips  along  the  city  —  the  flags  of  different  nationalities, 
the  sturdy  English  cross  on  its  ground  of  blood,  the  French  tricolor, 
the  banner  of  the  great  North  German  empire,  and  the  Italian  and 
the  Spanish  colors  —  sometimes,  of  an  afternoon,  the  whole  scene  en 
liven' d  by  a  fleet  of  yachts,  in  a  half  calm,  lazily  returning  from  a  race 
down  at  Gloucester;  —  the  neat,  rakish,  revenue  steamer  "Hamilton  " 
in  mid-stream,  with  her  perpendicular  stripes  flaunting  aft  —  and,  turn 
ing  the  eyes  north,  the  long  ribands  of  fleecy-white  steam,  or  dingy- 
black  smoke,  stretching  far,  fan-shaped,  slanting  diagonally  across  from 
the  Kensington  or  Richmond  shores,  in  the  west-by-south-west  wind. 


n8  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

SCENES    ON    FERRY     Then  the  Camden  ferry.     What  exhilara- 

AND  RIVER  —  LAST     tion,   change,    people,    business,    by   day. 

WINTER'S    NIGHTS     What  soothing,  silent,  wondrous  hours,  at 

night,  crossing  on  the  boat,  most   all   to 

myself — pacing  the  deck,  alone,  forward  or  aft.  What  communion 
with  the  waters,  the  air,  the  exquisite  chiaroscuro — the  sky  and  stars, 
that  speak  no  word,  nothing  to  the  intellect,  yet  so  eloquent,  so  com 
municative  to  the  soul.  And  the  ferry  men  —  little  they  know  how 
much  they  have  been  to  me,  day  and  night — how  many  spells  of  list- 
lessness,  ennui,  debility,  they  and  their  hardy  ways  have  dispelPd. 
And  the  pilots — captains  Hand,  Walton,  and  Giberson  by  day,  and 
captain  Olive  at  night;  Eugene  Crosby,  with  his  strong  young  arm  so 
often  supporting,  circling,  convoying  me  over  the  gaps  of  the  bridge, 
through  impediments,  safely  aboard.  Indeed  all  my  ferry  friends  — 
captain  Frazee  the  superintendent,  Lindell,  Hiskey,  Fred  Rauch,  Price, 
Watson,  and  a  dozen  more.  And  the  ferry  itself,  with  its  queer 
scenes  —  sometimes  children  suddenly  born  in  the  waiting-houses  (an 
actual  fact  —  and  more  than  once)  —  sometimes  a  masquerade  party, 
going  over  at  night,  with  a  band  of  music,  dancing  and  whirling  like 
mad  on  the  broad  deck,  in  their  fantastic  dresses;  sometimes  the 
astronomer,  Mr.  Whitall,  (who  posts  me  up  in  points  about  the  stars 
by  a  living  lesson  there  and  then,  and  answering  every  question)  — 
sometimes  a  prolific  family  group,  eight,  nine,  ten,  even  twelve  ! 
(Yesterday,  as  I  cross*  d,  a  mother,  father,  and  eight  children,  waiting 
in  the  ferry-house,  bound  westward  somewhere.) 

I  have  mention' d  the  crows.  I  always  watch  them  from  the  boats. 
They  play  quite  a  part  in  the  winter  scenes  on  the  river,  by  day. 
Their  black  splatches  are  seen  in  relief  against  the  snow  and  ice  every 
where  at  that  season  —  sometimes  flying  and  flapping  —  sometimes  on 
little  or  larger  cakes,  sailing  up  or  down  the  stream.  One  day  the 
river  was  mostly  clear  —  only  a  single  long  ridge  of  broken  ice  making 
a  narrow  stripe  by  itself,  running  along  down  the  current  for  over  a 
mile,  quite  rapidly.  On  this  white  stripe  the  crows  were  congregated, 
hundreds  of  them  —  a  funny  procession  —  ("  half  mourning  ' '  was  the 
comment  of  some  one.) 

Then  the  reception  room,  for  passengers  waiting  —  life  illustrated 
thoroughly.  Take  a  March  picture  I  jotted  there  two  or  three  weeks 
since.  Afternoon,  about  3^  o'clock,  it  begins  to  snow.  There  has 
been  a  matinee  performance  at  the  theater — from  4^  to  5  comes  a 
stream  of  homeward  bound  ladies.  I  never  knew  the  spacious  room 
to  present  a  gayer,  more  lively  scene  —  handsome,  well-drest  Jersey 
women  and  girls,  scores  of  them,  streaming  in  for  nearly  an  hour  — 
the  bright  eyes  and  glowing  faces,  coming  in  from  the  air  —  a  sprink 
ling  of  snow  on  bonnets  or  dresses  as  they  enter  —  the  five  or  ten 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  119 

minutes*    waiting  —  the  chatting  and   laughing  —  (women   can   have 
capital   times  among   themselves,  with  plenty  of  wit,  lunches,  jovial 

abandon) Lizzie,  the  pleasant-manner'  d  waiting-room  woman  —  for 

sound,  the  bell-taps  and  steam-signals  of  the  departing  boats  with  their 
rhythmic  break  and  undertone  —  the  domestic  pictures,  mothers  with 
bevies  of  daughters,  (a  charming  sight)  —children,  countrymen  —  the 
railroad  men  in  their  blue  clothes  and  caps  — all  the  various  characters 
of  city  and  country  represented  or  suggested.  Then  outside  some 
belated  passenger  frantically  running,  jumping  after  the  boat.  Towards 
six  o'clock  the  human  stream  gradually  thickening  —  now  a  pressure  of 
vehicles,  drays,  piled  railroad  crates  —  now  a  drove  of  cattle,  ^making 
quite  an  excitement,  the  drovers  with  heavy  sticks,  belaboring  the 
steaming  sides  of  the  frighten' d  brutes.  Inside  the  reception  room, 
business  bargains,  flirting,  love-making,  eclaircissements,  proposals  - 
pleasant,  sober-faced  Phil  coming  in  with  his  burden  of  afternoon 

papers Or  Jo,  or  Charley  (who  jump'd  in  the  dock  last  week,  and 

saved  a  stout  lady  from  drowning,)  to  replenish  the  stove,  and  clearing 
it  with  long  crow-bar  poker. 

Besides  all  this  "comedy  human,"  the  river  affords  nutriment  of  a 
higher  order.  Here  are  some  of  my  memoranda  of  the  past  winter, 
just  as  pencill' d  down  on  the  spot. 

A  January  Night. —  Fine  trips  across  the  wide  Delaware  to-night. 
Tide  pretty  high,  and  a  strong  ebb.  River,  a  little  after  8,  full  of  ice, 
mostly  broken,  but  some  large  cakes  making  our  strong-timberM  steam 
boat  hum  and  quiver  as  she  strikes  them.  In  the  clear  moonlight  they 
spread,  strange,  unearthly,  silvery,  faintly  glistening,  as  far  as  I  can 
see.  Bumping,  trembling,  sometimes  hissing  like  a  thousand  snakes, 
the  tide-procession,  as  we  wend  with  or  through  it,  affording  a  grand 
undertone,  in  keeping  with  the  scene.  Overhead,  the  splendor  inde 
scribable  ;  yet  something  haughty,  almost  supercilious,  in  the  night. 
Never  did  I  realize  more  latent  sentiment,  almost  passion,  in  those 
silent  interminable  stars  up  there.  One  can  understand,  such  a  night, 
why,  from  the  days  of  the  Pharaohs  or  Job,  the  dome  of  heaven, 
sprinkled  with  planets,  has  supplied  the  subtlest,  deepest  criticism  on 
human  pride,  glory,  ambition. 

Another  Winter  Night. —  I  don't  know  anything  more  filling  than 
to  be  on  the  wide  firm  deck  of  a  powerful  boat,  a  clear,  cool,  extra- 
moonlight  night,  crushing  proudly  and  resistlessly  through  this  thick, 
marbly,  glistening  ice.  The  whole  river  is  now  spread  with  it  - 
some  immense  cakes.  There  is  such  weirdness  about  the  scene  — 
partly  the  quality  of  the  light,  with  its  tinge  of  blue,  the  lunar  twi 
light only  the  large  stars  holding  their  own  in  the  radiance  of  the 

moon.       Temperature   sharp,    comfortable   for   motion,    dry,    full^  of 
oxygen.      But   the  sense  of  power  —  the  steady,   scornful,  imperious 


120  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

urge  of  our  strong  new  engine,  as  she  ploughs  her  way  through  the  big 
and  little  cakes. 

Another.  —  For  two  hours  I  cross' d  and  recross'd,  merely  for 
pleasure  —  for  a  still  excitement.  Both  sky  and  river  went  through 
several  changes.  The  first  for  awhile  held  two  vast  fan-shaped 
echelons  of  light  clouds,  through  which  the  moon  waded,  now  radiat 
ing,  carrying  with  her  an  aureole  of  tawny  transparent  brown,  and  now 
flooding  the  whole  vast  with  clear  vapory  light-green,  through  which, 
as  through  an  illuminated  veil,  she  moved  with  measur'd  womanly 
motion.  Then,  another  trip,  the  heavens  would  be  absolutely  clear, 
and  Luna  in  all  her  effulgence.  The  big  Dipper  in  the  north,  with  the 
double  star  in  the  handle  much  plainer  than  common.  Then  the 
sheeny  track  of  light  in  the  water,  dancing  and  rippling.  Such  trans 
formations;  such  pictures  and  poems,  inimitable. 

Another.  —  I  am  studying  the  stars,  under  advantages,  as  I  cross  to 
night.  (It  is  late  in  February,  and  again  extra  clear.  High  toward 
the  west,  the  Pleiades,  tremulous  with  delicate  sparkle,  in  the  soft 
heavens, — Aldebaran,  leading  the  V-shaped  Hyades  —  and  overhead 
Capella  and  her  kids.  Most  majestic  of  all,  in  full  display  in  the  high 
south,  Orion,  vast-spread,  roomy,  chief  historian  of  the  stage,  with  his 
shiny  yellow  rosette  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  three  kings  —  and  a  little 
to  the  east,  Sirius,  calmly  arrogant,  most  wondrous  single  star.  Going 
late  ashore,  (I  couldn't  give  up  the  beauty,  and  soothingness  of  the 
night,)  as  I  staid  around,  or  slowly  wander* d  I  heard  the  echoing  calls 
of  the  railroad  men  in  the  West  Jersey  depot  yard,  shifting  and  switch 
ing  trains,  engines,  &c.  ;  amid  the  general  silence  otherways,  and 
something  in  the  acoustic  quality  of  the  air,  musical,  emotional  effects, 
never  thought  of  before.  I  lingered  long  and  long,  listening  to  them. 

Night  of  March  18,  '79.  — One  of  the  calm,  pleasantly  cool,  exqui 
sitely  clear  and  cloudless,  early  spring  nights  —  the  atmosphere  again 
that  rare  vitreous  blue-black,  welcomed  by  astronomers.  Just  at  8, 
evening,  the  scene  overhead  of  certainly  solemnest  beauty,  never  sur 
pass' d.  Venus  nearly  down  in  the  west,  of  a  size  and  lustre  as  if 
trying  to  outshow  herself,  before  departing.  Teeming,  maternal  orb 
—  I  take  you  again  to  myself.  I  am  reminded  of  that  spring  preceding 
Abraham  Lincoln's  murder,  when  I,  restlessly  haunting  the  Potomac 
banks,  around  Washington  city,  watch' d  you,  off  there,  aloof,  moody 
as  myself: 

As  we  walk'  d  up  and  down  in  the  dark  blue  so  mystic, 

As  we  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 

As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell,  as  you  bent  to  me  night  after  night, 

As  you  droop  from  the  sky  low  down,  as  if  to  my  side,  (while  the  other 

stars  all  lookM  on,) 
As  we  wander*  d  together  the  solemn  night. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  121 

With  departing  Venus,  large  to  the  last,  and  shining  even  to  the 
edge  of  the  horizon,  the  vast  dome  presents  at  this  moment,  such  a 
spectacle!  Mercury  was  visible  just  after  sunset  —  a  rare  sight.  Arc- 
turus  is  now  risen,  just  north  of  east.  In  calm  glory  all  the  stars  of 
Orion  hold  the  place  of  honor,  in  meridian,  to  the  south  —  with  the 
Dog-star  a  little  to  the  left.  And  now,  just  rising,  Spica,  late,  low, 
and  slightly  veil'd.  Castor,  Regulus  and  the  rest,  all  shining  unusually 
clear,  (no  Mars  or  Jupiter  or  moon  till  morning.)  On  the  edge  of  the 
river,  many  lamps  twinkling  —  with  two  or  three  huge  chimneys,  a 
couple  of  miles  up,  belching  forth  molten,  steady  flames,  volcano-like, 
illuminating  all  around  —  and  sometimes  an  electric  or  calcium,  its 
Dante-Inferno  gleams,  in  far  shafts,  terrible,  ghastly-powerful.  Of 
later  May  nights,  crossing,  I  like  to  watch  the  fishermen's  little  buoy- 
lights 'so  pretty,  so  dreamy  —  like  corpse  candles  —  undulating 

delicate  and  lonesome  on  the  surface  of  the  shadowy  waters,  floating 
with  the  current. 

THE   FIRST  SPRING     Winter    relaxing    its    hold,    has    already 
DAY  ON  CHEST-  allow' d  us  a  foretaste   of  spring.      As   I 

NUT  STREET  write,  yesterday  afternoon's  softness  and 

brightness,  (after  the  morning  fog,  which 

gave  it  a  better  setting,  by  contrast,)  show'd  Chestnut  street  —  say 
between  Broad  and  Fourth  —  to  more  advantage  in  its  various  asides, 
and  all  its  stores,  and  gay-dress' d  crowds  generally,  than  for  three 
months  past.  I  took  a  walk  there  between  one  and  two.  Doubtless, 
there  were  plenty  of  hard-up  folks  along  the  pavements,  but  nine-tenths 
of  the  myriad-moving  human  panorama  to  all  appearance  seem'd  flush, 
well-fed,  and  fully-provided.  At  all  events  it  was  good  to  be  on 
Chestnut  street  yesterday.  The  peddlers  on  the  sidewalk —  ("sleeve- 
buttons,  three  for  five  cents") — the  handsome  little  fellow  with 
canary-bird  whistles  —  the  cane  men,  toy  men,  toothpick  men  —  the 
old  woman  squatted  in  a  heap  on  the  cold  stone  flags,  with  her  basket 
of  matches,  pins  and  tape  —  the  young  negro  mother,  sitting,  begging, 
with  her  two  little  coffee-color'  d  twins  on  her  lap  —  the  beauty  of  the 
cramm'd  conservatory  of  rare  flowers,  flaunting  reds,  yellows,  snowy 
lilies,  incredible  orchids,  at  the  Baldwin  mansion  near  Twelfth  street  - — 
the  show  of  fine  poultry,  beef,  fish,  at  the  restaurants  —  the  china 
stores,  with  glass  and  statuettes  —  the  luscious  tropical  fruits  —  the  street 
cars  plodding  along,  with  their  tintinnabulating  bells  —  the  fat,  cab- 
looking,  rapidly  driven  one-horse  vehicles  of  the  post-office,  squeez'd 
full  of  coming  or  going  letter-carriers,  so  healthy  and  handsome  and 
manly-looking,  in  their  gray  uniforms  —  the  costly  books,  pictures,  curi 
osities,  in  the  windows  —  the  gigantic  policemen  at  most  of  the  corners 
—  will  all  be  readily  remember' d  and  recognized  as  features  of  this 


122  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

principal  avenue  of  Philadelphia.  Chestnut  street,  I  have  discover* d, 
is  not  without  individuality,  and  its  own  points,  even  when  compared 
with  the  great  promenade-streets  of  other  cities.  I  have  never  been  in 
Europe,  but  acquired  years'  familiar  experience  with  New  York's, 
(perhaps  the  world's)  great  thoroughfare,  Broadway,  and  possess  to 
some  extent  a  personal  and  saunterer's  knowledge  of  St.  Charles  street 
in  New  Orleans,  Tremont  street  in  Boston,  and  the  broad  trottoirs  of 
Pennsylvania  avenue  in  Washington.  Of  course  it  is  a  pity  that 
Chestnut  were  not  two  or  three  times  wider ;  but  the  street,  any  fine 
day,  shows  vividness,  motion,  variety,  not  easily  to  be  surpassed. 
(Sparkling  eyes,  human  faces,  magnetism,  well-dress' d  women,  ambu 
lating  to  and  fro  —  with  lots  of  fine  things  in  the  windows  — are  they 
not  about  the  same,  the  civilized  world  over  ?) 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  facej 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles  —  and  some 

Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

A  few  days  ago  one  of  the  six-story  clothing  stores  along  here  had 
the  space  inside  its  plate-glass  show-window  partition*  d  into  a  little 
corral,  and  litter Jd  deeply  with  rich  clover  and  hay,  (I  could  smell  the 
odor  outside,)  on  which  reposed  two  magnificent  fat  sheep,  full-sized 
but  young  —  the  handsomest  creatures  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw.  I 
stopp'd  long  and  long,  with  the  crowd,  to  view  them  —  one  lying 
down  chewing  the  cud,  and  one  standing  up,  looking  out,  with  dense- 
fringed  patient  eyes.  Their  wool,  of  a  clear  tawny  color,  with 
streaks  of  glistening  black  —  altogether  a  queer  sight  amidst  that 
crowded  promenade  of  dandies,  dollars  and  dry-goods. 

UP  THE  HUDSON  April  23.  —  Off  to  New  York  on  a 
TO  ULSTER  little  tour  and  visit.  Leaving  the  hos- 

COUNTY  pitable,   home-like  quarters  of  my  valued 

friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  H.  Johnston  — 

took  the  4  p.  M.  boat,  bound  up  the  Hudson,  100  miles  or  so.  Sun 
set  and  evening  fine.  Especially  enjoy 'd  the  hour  after  we  passed 
Cozzens's  landing — the  night  lit  by  the  crescent  moon  and  Venus, 
now  swimming  in  tender  glory,  and  now  hid  by  the  high  rocks  and 
hills  of  the  western  shore,  which  we  hugg'd  close.  (Where  I  spend 
the  next  ten  days  is  in  Ulster  county  and  its  neighborhood,  with 
frequent  morning  and  evening  drives,  observations  of  the  river,  and 
short  rambles.) 

April  24.  —  Noon.  —  A  little  more  and  the  sun  would  be  oppres 
sive.  The  bees  are  out  gathering  their  bread  from  willows  and  other 
trees.  I  watch  them  returning,  darting  through  the  air  or  lighting  on 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  123 

the  hives,  their  thighs  covered  with  the  yellow  forage.  A  solitary 
robin  sings  near.  I  sit  in  my  shirt  sleeves  and  gaze  from  an  open  bay- 
window  on  the  indolent  scene  — the  thin  haze,  the  Fishkill  hills  in  the 
distance  —  off  on  the  river,  a  sloop  with  slanting  mainsail,  and  two  or 
three  little  shad-boats.  Over  on  the  railroad  opposite,  long  freight 
trains,  sometimes  weighted  by  cylinder  -  tanks  of  petroleum  thirty, 
forty,  fifty  cars  in  a  string,  panting  and  rumbling  along  in  full  view, 
but  the  sound  soften' d  by  distance. 

DAYS  AT  J.   B.'S —        April  26. — At  sunrise,    the   pure   clear 

TURF-FIRES sound    of  the    meadow    lark.      An    hour 

SPRING  SONGS  later,    some   notes,    few    and  simple,   yet 

delicious  and  perfect,  from  the  bush-spar 
row—towards  noon  the  reedy  trill  of  the  robin.  To-day  is  the 
fairest,  sweetest  yet  —  penetrating  warmth  — a  lovely  veil  in  the  air, 
partly  heat-vapor  and  partly  from  the  turf-fires  everywhere  in  patches 
on  the  farms.  A  group  of  soft  maples  near  by  silently  bursts  out  in 
crimson  tips,  buzzing  all  day  with  busy  bees.  The  white  sails  of 
sloops  and  schooners  glide  up  and  down  the  river;  and  long  trams  of 
cars,  with  ponderous  roll,  or  faint  bell  notes,  almost  constantly  on  the 
opposite  shore.  The  earliest  wild  flowers  in  the  woods  and  fields, 
spicy  arbutus,  blue  liverwort,  frail  anemone,  and  the  pretty  white 
blossoms  of  the  bloodroot.  I  launch  out  in  slow  rambles,  discovering 
them.  As  I  go  along  the  roads  I  like  to  see  the  farmers'  fires  in 
patches,  burning  the  dry  brush,  turf,  debris.  How  the  smoke  crawls 
along,  flat  to  the  ground,  slanting,  slowly  rising,  reaching  away,  and 
at  last  dissipating.  I  like  its  acrid  smell  —  whiffs  just  reaching  me 
—  welcomer  than  French  perfume. 

The  birds  are  plenty;  of  any  sort,  or  of  two  or  three  sorts,  curiously, 
not  a  sign,  till  suddenly  some  warm,  gushing,  sunny  April  (or  even 
March)  day  —  lo  !  there  they  are,  from  twig  to  twig,  or  fence  to 
fence,  flirting,  singing,  some  mating,  preparing  to  build.  But  most  of 
them  en  passant  —  a  fortnight,  a  month  in  these  parts,  and  then  away. 
As  in  all  phases,  Nature  keeps  up  her  vital,  copious,  eternal  procession. 
Still,  plenty  of  the  birds  hang  around  all  or  most  of  the  season  —  now 
their  love-time,  and  era  of  nest-building.  I  find  flying  over  the  river, 
crows,  gulls  and  hawks.  I  hear  the  afternoon  shriek  of  the  latter, 
darting  about,  preparing  to  nest.  The  oriole  will  soon  be  heard  here, 
and  the  twanging  meoeow  of  the  cat-bird  ;  also  the  king-bird,  cuckoo 
and  the  warblers.  All  along,  there  are  three  peculiarly  characteristic 
spring  songs  —  the  meadow-lark's,  so  sweet,  so  alert  and  remonstrat 
ing  (as  if  he  said,  "don't  you  see  ?  "  or,  "can't  you  understand  ?") 

the  cheery,   mellow,   human  tones  of  the  robin  —  (I  have  been 

trying  for  years  to  get  a  brief  term,  or  phrase,  that  would  identify  asd 


124  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

describe  that  robin  call)  —  and  the  amorous  whistle  of  the  high-hole. 
Insects  are  out  plentifully  at  midday. 

April  29.  —  As  we  drove  lingering  along  the  road  we  heard,  just 
after  sundown,  the  song  of  the  wood-thrush.  We  stopped  without  a 
word,  and  listen' d  long.  The  delicious  notes  —  a  sweet,  artless, 
voluntary,  simple  anthem,  as  from  the  flute-stops  of  some  organ, 
wafted  through  the  twilight  —  echoing  well  to  us  from  the  perpen 
dicular  high  rock,  where,  in  some  thick  young  trees*  recesses  at  the 
base,  sat  the  bird  —  filPd  our  senses,  our  souls. 

MEETING  A  HER-         I  found  in  one  of  my  rambles  up  the  hills 

MIT  a  real  hermit,  living  in  a  lonesome  spot, 

hard  to  get  at,  rocky,  the  view  fine,  with  a 

little  patch  of  land  two  rods  square.  A  man  of  youngish  middle  age, 
city  born  and  raised,  had  been  to  school,  had  travel' d  in  Europe  and 
California.  I  first  met  him  once  or  twice  on  the  road,  and  pass'd  the 
time  of  day,  with  some  small  talk  ;  then,  the  third  time,  he  ask'd  me 
to  go  along  a  bit  and  rest  in  his  hut  (an  almost  unprecedented  compli 
ment,  as  I  heard  from  others  afterwards.)  He  was  of  Quaker  stock, 
I  think  ;  talk'd  with  ease  and  moderate  freedom,  but  did  not  unbosom 
his  life,  or  story,  or  tragedy,  or  whatever  it  was. 

AN  ULSTER  CO  UN-  I  jot  this  mem.  in  a  wild  scene  of  woods 
TY  WATERFALL  and  hills,  where  we  have  come  to  visit  a 

waterfall.      I    never    saw    finer    or    more 

copious  hemlocks,  many  of  them  large,  some  old  and  hoary.  Such  a 
sentiment  to  them,  secretive,  shaggy  —  what  I  call  weather-beaten 
and  let-alone — a  rich  underlay  of  ferns,  yew  sprouts  and  mosses, 
beginning  to  be  spotted  with  the  early  summer  wild-flowers.  Envelop 
ing  all,  the  monotone  and  liquid  gurgle  from  the  hoarse  impetuous 
copious  fall  —  the  greenish-tawny,  darkly  transparent  waters,  plunging 
with  velocity  down  the  rocks,  with  patches  of  milk-white  foam — a 
stream  of  hurrying  amber,  thirty  feet  wide,  risen  far  back  in  the  hills 
and  woods,  now  rushing  with  volume  —  every  hundred  rods  a  fall, 
and  sometimes  three  or  four  in  that  distance.  A  primitive  forest, 
druidical,  solitary  and  savage  —  not  ten  visitors  a  year  —  broken  rocks 
everywhere  —  shade  overhead,  thick  underfoot  with  leaves  —  a  just 
palpable  wild  and  delicate  aroma. 

WALTER  DUMONT     As  I  saunter* d  along  the  high  road  yester- 

AND  HIS  MEDAL  day,  I  stopp'd  to  watch  a  man  near  by, 

ploughing  a  rough  stony  field  with  a  yoke 

of  oxen.  Usually  there  is  much  geeing  and  hawing,  excitement,  and 
continual  noise  and  expletives,  about  a  job  of  this  kind.  But  I  noticed 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  125 

hew  different,  how  easy  and  wordless,  yet  firm  and  sufficient,  the  work 
of  this  young  ploughman.  His  name  was  Walter  Dumont,  a  farmer, 
and  son  of  a  farmer,  working  for  their  living.  Three  years  ago,  when 
the  steamer  "  Sunnyside  "  was  wreck' d  of  a  bitter  icy  night  on  the 
west  bank  here,  Walter  went  out  in  his  boat  —  was  the  first  man  on 
hand  with  assistance  —  made  a  way  through  the  ice  to  shore,  connected 
a  line,  perform' d  work  of  first-class  readiness,  daring,  danger,  and 
saved  numerous  lives.  Some  weeks  after,  one  evening  when  he  was 
up  at  Esopus,  among  the  usual  loafing  crowd  at  the  country  store  and 
post-office,  there  arrived  the  gift  of  an  unexpected  official  gold  medal 
for  the  quiet  hero.  The  impromptu  presentation  was  made  to  him  on 
the  spot,  but  he  blush' d,  hesitated  as  he  took  it,  and  had  nothing  to 
say. 

HUDSON  RIVER  It    was    a    happy    thought    to    build   the 

SIGHTS  Hudson    river    railroad   right    along    the 

shore.      The  grade    is    already    made    by 

nature  ;  you  are  sure  of  ventilation  one  side  —  and  you  are  in  nobody's 
way.  I  see,  hear,  the  locomotives  and  cars,  rumbling,  roaring,  flam 
ing,  smoking,  constantly,  away  off  there,  night  and  day  —  less  than  a 
mile  distant,  and  in  full  view  by  day.  I  like  both  sight  and  sound. 
Express  trains  thunder  and  lighten  along  ;  of  freight  trains,  most  of 
them  very  long,  there  cannot  be  less  than  a  hundred  a  day.  At  night 
far  down  you  see  the  headlight  approaching,  coming  steadily  on  like  a 
meteor.  The  river  at  night  has  its  special  character-beauties.  The 
shad  fishermen  go  forth  in  their  boats  and  pay  out  their  nets  —  one 
sitting  forward,  rowing,  and  one  standing  up  aft  dropping  it  properly 

—  marking  the  line  with  little  floats  bearing  candles,  conveying,  as  they 
glide  over  the  water,  an  indescribable  sentiment  and  doubled  brightness. 
I  like  to  watch  the  tows  at  night,  too,  with  their  twinkling  lamps,  and 
hear    the   husky  panting  of  the  steamers  ;    or   catch  the  sloops'    and 
schooners'  shadowy  forms,  like  phantoms,  white,  silent,  indefinite,  out 
there.      Then  the  Hudson  of  a  clear  moonlight  night. 

But  there  is  one  sight  the  very  grandest.  Sometimes  in  the  fiercest 
driving  storm  of  wind,  rain,  hail  or  snow,  a  great  eagle  will  appear 
over  the  river,  now  soaring  with  steady  and  now  overbended  wings  — 
always  confronting  the  gale,  or  perhaps  cleaving  into,  or  at  times 
literally  sitting  upon  it.  It  is  like  reading  some  first-class  natural 
tragedy  or  epic,  or  hearing  martial  trumpets.  The  splendid  bird 
enjoys  the  hubbub  —  is  adjusted  and  equal  to  it  —  finishes  it  so  artis 
tically.  His  pinions  just  oscillating  —  the  position  of  his  head  and 
neck  —  his  resistless,  occasionally  varied  flight — now  a  swirl,  now  an 
upward  movement — the  black  clouds  driving  —  the  angry  wash  below 

—  the  hiss  of  rain,  the  wind's  piping  (perhaps  the  ice  colliding,  grunt- 


126  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ing)  —  he  tacking  or  jibing  —  now,  as  it  were,  for  a  change,  abandon 
ing  himself  to  the  gale,  moving  with  it  with  such  velocity  —  and  now, 
resuming  control,  he  comes  up  against  it,  lord  of  the  situation  and  the 
storm  —  lord,  amid  it,  of  power  and  savage  joy. 

Sometimes  (as  at  present  writing,)  middle  of  sunny  afternoon,  the 
old  "  Vanderbilt ' '  steamer  stalking  ahead  —  I  plainly  hear  her 
rhythmic,  slushing  paddles  —  drawing  by  long  hawsers  an  immense 
and  varied  following  string,  ("an  old  sow  and  pigs,"  the  river  folks 
call  it.)  First  comes  a  big  barge,  with  a  house  built  on  it,  and  spars 
towering  over  the  roof;  then  canal  boats,  a  lengthened,  clustering 
train,  fastened  and  link'd  together  —  the  one  in  the  middle,  with 
high  staff,  flaunting  a  broad  and  gaudy  flag  —  others  with  the  almost 
invariable  lines  of  new-wash' d  clothes,  drying ;  two  sloops  and  a 
schooner  aside  the  tow  —  little  wind,  and  that  adverse  —  with  three 
long,  dark,  empty  barges  bringing  up  the  rear.  People  are  on  the 
boats:  men  lounging,  women  in  sun-bonnets,  children,  stovepipes 
with  streaming  smoke. 

TWO   CITY  AREAS,     NEW  YORK,  May  24,  'yp.  —  Perhaps  no 

CERTAIN    HOURS        quarters    of  this    city    (I    have    return' d 

again   for   awhile,)  make  more   brilliant, 

animated,  crowded,  spectacular  human  presentations  these  fine  May 
afternoons  than  the  two  I  am  now  going  to  describe  from  personal 
observation.  First:  that  area  comprising  Fourteenth  street  (especi 
ally  the  short  range  between  Broadway  and  Fifth  avenue)  with  Union 
square,  its  adjacencies,  and  so  retrostretching  down  Broadway  for 
half  a  mile.  All  the  walks  here  are  wide,  and  the  spaces  ample  and 
free  —  now  flooded  with  liquid  gold  from  the  last  two  hours  of  pow 
erful  sunshine.  The  whole  area  at  5  o'clock,  the  days  of  my  obser 
vations,  must  have  contain' d  from  thirty  to  forty  thousand  finely-dress' d 
people,  all  in  motion,  plenty  of  them  good-looking,  many  beautiful 
women,  often  youths  and  children,  the  latter  in  groups  with  their 
nurses  —  the  trottoirs  everywhere  close-spread,  thick-tangled,  (yet  no 
collision,  no  trouble,)  with  masses  of  bright  color,  action,  and  tasty 
toilets;  (surely  the  women  dress  better  than  ever  before,  and  the 
men  do  too. )  As  if  New  York  would  show  these  afternoons  what 
it  can  do  in  its  humanity,  its  choicest  physique  and  physiognomy,  and 
its  countless  prodigality  of  locomotion,  dry  goods,  glitter,  magnetism, 
and  happiness. 

Second:  also  from  5  to  7  P.M.  the  stretch  of  Fifth  avenue,  all  the 
way  from  the  Central  Park  exits  at  Fifty-ninth  street,  down  to  Four 
teenth,  especially  along  the  high  grade  by  Fortieth  street,  and  down 
the  hill.  A  Mississippi  of  horses  and  rich  vehicles,  not  by  dozens 
and  scores,  but  hundreds  and  thousands  —  the  broad  avenue  filled  and 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  127 

cramm'd  with  them  —  a  moving,  sparkling,  hurrying  crush,  for  more 
than  two  miles.  (I  wonder  they  don't  get  block' d,  but  I  believe 
they  never  do.)  Altogether  it  is  to  me  the  marvel  sight  of  New 
York.  I  like  to  get  in  one  of  the  Fifth  avenue  stages  and  ride  up, 
stemming  the  swift-moving  procession.  I  doubt  if  London  or  Paris 
or  any  city  in  the  world  can  show  such  a  carriage  carnival  as  I  have 
seen  here  five  or  six  times  these  beautiful  May  afternoons. 

CENTRAL    PARK  May  16  to  22.  —  I  visit  Central  Park  now 

WALKS  AND  TALKS     almost  every  day,  sitting,  or  slowly  ram 
bling,  or  riding  around.    The  whole  place 

presents  its  very  best  appearance  this  current  month  —  the  full  flush 
of  the  trees,  the  plentiful  white  and  pink  of  the  flowering  shrubs,  the 
emerald  green  of  the  grass  spreading  everywhere,  yellow  dotted  still 
with  dandelions  —  the  specialty  of  the  plentiful  gray  rocks,  peculiar 
to  these  grounds,  cropping  out,  miles  and  miles  —  and  over  all  the 
beauty  and  purity,  three  days  out  of  four,  of  our  summer  skies.  As 
I  sit,  placidly,  early  afternoon,  off  against  Ninetieth  street,  the  police 
man,  C.  C.,  a  well-form'd  sandy-complexion'd  young  fellow,  comes 
over  and  stands  near  me.  We  grow  quite  friendly  and  chatty  forth 
with.  He  is  a  New  Yorker  born  and  raised,  and  in  answer  to  my 
questions  tells  me  about  the  life  of  a  New  York  Park  policeman, 
(while  he  talks  keeping  his  eyes  and  ears  vigilantly  open,  occasionally 
pausing  and  moving  where  he  can  get  full  views  of  the  vistas  of  the 
road,  up  and  down,  and  the  spaces  around.)  The  pay  is  $2.40  a 
day  (seven  days  to  a  week)  —  the  men  come  on  and  work  eight 
hours  straight  ahead,  which  is  all  that  is  required  of  them  out  of  the 
twenty-four.  The  position  has  more  risks  than  one  might  suppose  — 
for  instance  if  a  team  or  horse  runs  away  (which  happens  daily)  each 
man  is  expected  not  only  to  be  prompt,  but  to  waive  safety  and  stop 
wildest  nag  or  nags —  (do  it,  and  don't  be  thinking  of  your  bones 
or  face)  —  give  the  alarm-whistle  too,  so  that  other  guards  may  re 
peat,  and  the  vehicles  up  and  down  the  tracks  be  warn'd.  Injuries 
to  the  men  are  continually  happening.  There  is  much  alertness  and 
quiet  strength.  (Few  appreciate,  I  have  often  thought,  the  Ulys- 
sean  capacity,  derring  do,  quick  readiness  in  emergencies,  practi 
cality,  unwitting  devotion  and  heroism,  among  our  American  young 
men  and  working-people  —  the  firemen,  the  railroad  employe's, 
the  steamer  and  ferry  men,  the  police,  the  conductors  and  drivers 
—  the  whole  splendid  average  of  native  stock,  city  and  country.) 
It  is  good  work,  though;  and  upon  the  whole,  the  Park  force 
members  like  it.  They  see  life,  and  the  excitement  keeps  them  up. 
There  is  not  so  much  difficulty  as  might  be  supposed  from  tramps, 
roughs,  or  in  keeping  people  "off  the  grass."  The  worst  trouble 
10 


128  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

of  the  regular  Park  employ6  is  from  malarial  fever,  chills,  and  the 
like. 

A   FINE   AFTER-  Ten  thousand  vehicles  careering  through 

NOON,  4  TO  6  the  Park  this  perfect  afternoon.      Such  a 

show  !  and  I  have  seen  all  —  watch' d  it 

narrowly,  and  at  my  leisure.  Private  barouches,  cabs  and  coupes, 
some  fine  horseflesh  —  lapdogs,  footmen,  fashions,  foreigners,  cockades 
on  hats,  crests  on  panels  —  the  full  oceanic  tide  of  New  York's  wealth 
and  "gentility."  It  was  an  impressive,  rich,  interminable  circus  on 
a  grand  scale,  full  of  action  and  color  in  the  beauty  of  the  day,  under 
the  clear  sun  and  moderate  breeze.  Family  groups,  couples,  single 
drivers  —  of  course  dresses  generally  elegant  —  much  "style,"  (yet 
perhaps  little  or  nothing,  even  in  that  direction,  that  fully  justified 
itself.)  Through  the  windows  of  two  or  three  of  the  richest  carriages 
I  saw  faces  almost  corpse-like,  so  ashy  and  listless.  Indeed  the  whole 
affair  exhibited  less  of  sterling  America,  either  in  spirit  or  counte 
nance,  than  I  had  counted  on  from  such  a  select  mass-spectacle.  I 
suppose,  as  a  proof  of  limitless  wealth,  leisure,  and  the  aforesaid  "gen 
tility,"  it  was  tremendous.  Yet  what  I  saw  those  hours  (I  took  two 
other  occasions,  two  other  afternoons  to  watch  the  same  scene,)  con 
firms  a  thought  that  haunts  me  every  additional  glimpse  I  get  of  our 
top-loftical  general  or  rather  exceptional  phases  of  wealth  and  fashion 
in  this  country  —  namely,  that  they  are  ill  at  ease,  much  too  conscious, 
cased  in  too  many  cerements,  and  far  from  happy  —  that  there  is  noth 
ing  in  them  which  we  who  are  poor  and  plain  need  at  all  envy,  and 
that  instead  of  the  perennial  smell  of  the  grass  and  woods  and  shores, 
their  typical  redolence  is  of  soaps  and  essences,  very  rare  may  be,  but 
suggesting  the  barber  shop  —  something  that  turns  stale  and  musty  in 
a  few  hours  anyhow. 

Perhaps  the  show  on  the  horseback  road  was  prettiest.  Many 
groups  (threes  a  favorite  number, )  some  couples,  some  singly  —  many 
ladies  —  frequently  horses  or  parties  dashing  along  on  a  full  run  —  fine 
riding  the  rule  —  a  few  really  first-class  animals.  As  the  afternoon 
waned,  the  wheel' d  carriages  grew  less,  but  the  saddle-riders  seemed 
to  increase.  They  lingered  long  —  and  I  saw  some  charming  forms 
and  faces. 

DEPARTING    OF  May  25.  —A  three  hours'  bay-trip  from 

THE  BIG  STEAMERS      1 2  to  3  this  afternoon,  accompanying  "  the 

City  of  Brussels  "  down  as  far  as  the  Nar 
rows,  in  behoof  of  some  Europe-bound  friends,  to  give  them  a  good 
send  off.  Our  spirited  little  tug,  the  "Seth  Low,"  kept  close  to  the 
great  black  "Brussels,"  sometimes  one  side,  sometimes  the  other,  al- 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  129 

ways  up  to  her,  or  even  pressing  ahead,  (like  the  blooded  pony  accom 
panying  the  royal  elephant.)  The  whole  affair,  from  the  first,  was 
an  animated,  quick-passing,  characteristic  New  York  scene;  the  large, 
good-looking,  well-dress' d  crowd  on  the  wharf-end  —  men  and  women 
come  to  see  their  friends  depart,  and  bid  them  God-speed  —  the 
ship's  sides  swarming  with  passengers  —  groups  of  bronze-faced  sailors, 
with  uniform' d  officers  at  their  posts  —  the  quiet  directions,  as  she 
quickly  unfastens  and  moves  out,  prompt  to  a  minute  —  the  emotional 
faces,  adieus  and  fluttering  handkerchiefs,  and  many  smiles  and  some 
tears  on  the  wharf —  the  answering  faces,  smiles,  tears  and  fluttering 
handkerchiefs,  from  the  ship  —  (what  can  be  subtler  and  finer  than 
this  play  of  faces  on  such  occasions  in  these  responding  crowds  ?  — 
what  go  more  to  one's  heart?)  — the  proud,  steady,  noiseless  cleaving 
of  the  grand  oceaner  down  the  bay  —  we  speeding  by  her  side  a  few 
miles,  and  then  turning,  wheeling,  amid  a  babel  of  wild  hurrahs, 
shouted  partings,  ear-splitting  steam  whistles,  kissing  of  hands  and 
waving  of  handkerchiefs. 

This  departing  of  the  big  steamers,  noons  or  afternoons  —  there  is 
no  better  medicine  when  one  is  listless  or  vapory.  I  am  fond  of  going 
down  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays  —  their  more  special  days  —  to  watch 
them  and  the  crowds  on  the  wharves,  the  arriving  passengers,  the  gen 
eral  bustle  and  activity,  the  eager  looks  from  the  faces,  the  clear-toned 
voices,  (a  travel' d  foreigner,  a  musician,  told  me  the  other  day  she 
thinks  an  American  crowd  has  the  finest  voices  in  the  world,)  the 
whole  look  of  the  great,  shapely  black  ships  themselves,  and  their 
groups  and  lined  sides  —  in  the  setting  of  our  bay  with  the  blue  sky 
overhead.  Two  days  after  the  above  I  saw  the  "Britannic,"  the 
"  Donau,"  the  "Helvetia"  and  the  "Schiedam"  steam  out,  all  off 
for  Europe  —  a  magnificent  sight. 

TWO  HOURS  ON  From  7  to  9,  aboard  the  United  States 
THE  MINNESOTA  school-ship  Minnesota,  lying  up  the  North 

river.      Captain  Luce  sent  his  gig  for  us 

about  sundown,  to  the  foot  of  Twenty-third  street,  and  receiv'd  us 
aboard  with  officer-like  hospitality  and  sailor  heartiness.  There  are 
several  hundred  youths  on  the  Minnesota  to  be  train' d  for  efficiently 
manning  the  government  navy.  I  like  the  idea  much;  and,  so  far  as  I 
have  seen  to-night,  I  like  the  way  it  is  carried  out  on  this  huge  vessel. 
Below,  on  the  gun-deck,  were  gather' d  nearly  a  hundred  of  the  boys, 
to  give  us  some  of  their  singing  exercises,  with  a  melodeon  accompani 
ment,  play'd  by  one  of  their  number.  They  sang  with  a  will.  The 
best  part,  however,  was  the  sight  of  the  young  fellows  themselves.  I 
went  over  among  them  before  the  singing  began,  and  talk'd  a  few 
minutes  informally.  They  are  from  all  the  States;  I  asked  for  the 


130  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Southerners,  but  could  only  find  one,  a  lad  from  Baltimore.  In  age, 
apparently,  they  range  from  about  fourteen  years  to  nineteen  or  twenty. 
They  are  all  of  American  birth,  and  have  to  pass  a  rigid  medical  ex 
amination;  well-grown  youths,  good  flesh,  bright  eyes,  looking  straight 
at  you,  healthy,  intelligent,  not  a  slouch  among  them,  nor  a  menial  — 
in  every  one  the  promise  of  a  man.  I  have  been  to  many  public 
aggregations  of  young  and  old,  and  of  schools  and  colleges,  in  my 
day,  but  I  confess  I  have  never  been  so  near  satisfied,  so  comforted, 
(both  from  the  fact  of  the  school  itself,  and  the  splendid  proof  of  our 
country,  our  composite  race,  and  the  sample-promises  of  its  good 
average  capacities,  its  future, )  as  in  the  collection  from  all  parts  of  the 
United  States  on  this  navy  training  ship.  («'  Are  there  going  to  be 
any  men  there  ? ' '  was  the  dry  and  pregnant  reply  of  Emerson  to  one 
who  had  been  crowding  him  with  the  rich  material  statistics  and  possi 
bilities  of  some  western  or  Pacific  region. ) 

May  26.  —  Aboard  the  Minnesota  again.  Lieut.  Murphy  kindly 
came  for  me  in  his  boat.  Enjoy 'd  specially  those  brief  trips  to  and 
fro  —  the  sailors,  tann'd,  strong,  so  bright  and  able-looking,  pulling 
their  oars  in  long  side-swing,  man-of-war  style,  as  they  row'd  me 
across.  I  saw  the  boys  in  companies  drilling  with  small  arms;  had  a 
talk  with  Chaplain  Rawson.  At  II  o'clock  all  of  us  gathered  to 
breakfast  around  a  long  table  in  the  great  ward  room  —  I  among  the 
rest  —  a  genial,  plentiful,  hospitable  affair  every  way  —  plenty  to  eat, 
and  of  the  best;  became  acquainted  with  several  new  officers.  This 
second  visit,  with  its  observations,  talks,  (two  or  three  at  random  with 
the  boys,)  confirm' d  my  first  impressions. 

MATURE   SUMMER      Aug.  4.  — Forenoon  —  as  I  sit  under  the 

DAYS  AND  NIGHTS     willow  shade,    (have  retreated  down   in 

the  country  again,)  a  little  bird  is  leisurely 

dousing  and  flirting  himself  amid  the  brook  almost  within  reach  of  me. 
He  evidently  fears  me  not  —  takes  me  for  some  concomitant  of  the 
neighboring  earthy  banks,  free  bushery  and  wild  weeds.  6  p.  m.  — • 
The  last  three  days  have  been  perfect  ones  for  the  season,  (four  nights 
ago  copious  rains,  with  vehement  thunder  and  lightning.)  I  write  this 
sitting  by  the  creek  watching  my  two  kingfishers  at  their  sundown 
sport.  The  strong,  beautiful,  joyous  creatures  !  Their  wings  glisten 
in  the  slanted  sunbeams  as  they  circle  and  circle  around,  occasion 
ally  dipping  and  dashing  the  water,  and  making  long  stretches  up 
and  down  the  creek.  Wherever  I  go  over  fields,  through  lanes,  in 
by-places,  blooms  the  white-flowering  wild-carrot,  its  delicate  pat  of 
snow-flakes  crowning  its  slender  stem,  gracefully  oscillating  in  the 
breeze. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  131 

EXPOSITION  PHILADELPHIA,  Aug.  26.  —  Last  night  and 

BUILDING  —  NEW  to-night  of  unsurpass'd  clearness,  after  two 
CITY  HALL  —  RIVER  days'  rain;  moon  splendor  and  star  splen- 
TRIP  dor.  Being  out  toward  the  great  Exposi 

tion  building,  West  Philadelphia,  I  saw  it 

lit  up,  and  thought  I  would  go  in.  There  was  a  ball,  democratic  but 
nice;  plenty  of  young  couples  waltzing  and  quadrilling  —  music  by  a 
good  string-band.  To  the  sight  and  hearing  of  these  —  to  moderate 
strolls  up  and  down  the  roomy  spaces  —  to  getting  off  aside,  resting  in 
an  arm-chair  and  looking  up  a  long  while  at  the  grand  high  roof  with 
its  graceful  and  multitudinous  work  of  iron  rods,  angles,  gray  colors, 
plays  of  light  and  shade,  receding  into  dim  outlines  —  to  absorbing 
(in  the  intervals  of  the  string  band,)  some  capital  voluntaries  and  roll 
ing  caprices  from  the  big  organ  at  the  other  end  of  the  building  —  to 
sighting  a  shadow' d  figure  or  group  or  couple  of  lovers  every  now  and 
then  passing  some  near  or  farther  aisle  —  I  abandon' d  myself  for  over 
an  hour. 

Returning  home,  riding  down  Market  street  in  an  open  summer 
car,  something  detain' d  us  between  Fifteenth  and  Broad,  and  I  got 
out  to  view  better  the  new,  three-fifths-built  marble  edifice,  the 
City  Hall,  of  magnificent  proportions  —  a  majestic  and  lovely  show 
there  in  the  moonlight  —  flooded  all  over,  facades,  myriad  silver- 
white  lines  and  carv'd  heads  and  mouldings,  with  the  soft  dazzle  — 
silent,  weird,  beautiful  —  well,  I  know  that  never  when  finish' d 
will  that  magnificent  pile  impress  one  as  it  impress' d  me  those  fifteen 
minutes. 

To-night,  since,  I  have  been  long  on  the  river.  I  watch  the 
C-shaped  Northern  Crown,  (with  the  star  Alshacca  that  blazed  out 
so  suddenly,  alarmingly,  one  night  a  few  years  ago.)  The  moon  in 
her  third  quarter,  and  up  nearly  all  night.  And  there,  as  I  look  east 
ward,  my  long-absent  Pleiades,  welcome  again  to  sight.  For  an  hour 
I  enjoy  the  soothing  and  vital  scene  to  the  low  splash  of  waves  —  new 
stars  steadily,  noiselessly  rising  in  the  east. 

As  I  cross  the  Delaware,  one  of  the  deck-hands,  F.  R.,  tells  me 
how  a  woman  jump'd  overboard  and  was  drown' d  a  couple  of  hours 
since.  It  happen'd  in  mid-channel  —  she  leap'd  from  the  forward 
part  of  the  boat,  which  went  over  her.  He  saw  her  rise  on  the  other 
side  in  the  swift  running  water,  throw  her  arms  and  closed  hands  high 
up,  (white  hands  and  bare  forearms  in  the  moonlight  like  a  flash,)  and 
then  she  sank.  (I  found  out  afterwards  that  this  young  fellow  had 
promptly  jump'd  in,  swam  after  the  poor  creature,  and  made,  though 
unsuccessfully,  the  bravest  efforts  to  rescue  her;  but  he  didn't  mention 
that  part  at  all  in  telling  me  the  story.) 


132  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

SWALLOWS    ON  Sept.  j.—  Cloudy  and  wet,  and  wind  due 

THE    RIVER  east;  air  without  palpable    fog,    but  very 

heavy    with     moisture  —  welcome    for    a 

change.  Forenoon,  crossing  the  Delaware,  I  noticed  unusual  numbers 
of  swallows  in  flight,  circling,  darting,  graceful  beyond  description, 
close  to  the  water.  Thick,  around  the  bows  of  the  ferry-boat  as  she 
lay  tied  in  her  slip,  they  flew;  and  as  we  went  out  I  watch' d  beyond 
the  pier-heads,  and  across  the  broad  stream,  their  swift- winding  loop- 
ribands  of  motion,  down  close  to  it,  cutting  and  intersecting.  Though 
I  had  seen  swallows  all  my  life,  seem'd  as  though  I  never  before  real 
ized  their  peculiar  beauty  and  character  in  the  landscape.  (Some  time 
ago,  for  an  hour,  in  a  huge  old  country  barn,  watching  these  birds  fly 
ing,  recall' d  the  2zd  book  of  the  Odyssey,  where  Ulysses  slays  the 
suitors,  bringing  things  to  eclair  cisscment,  and  Minerva,  swallow- 
bodied,  darts  up  through  the  spaces  of  the  hall,  sits  high  on  a  beam, 
looks  complacently  on  the  show  of  slaughter,  and  feels  in  her  element, 
exulting,  joyous.) 

BEGIN    A    LONG  The  following  three  or  four  months  (Sept. 

JAUNT   WEST  to  Dec.    '79)    I  made    quite  a  western 

journey,  fetching  up  at  Denver,  Colorado, 

and  penetrating  the  Rocky  Mountain  region  enough  to  get  a  good  notion 
of  it  all.  Left  West  Philadelphia  after  9  o'clock  one  night,  middle  of 
September,  in  a  comfortable  sleeper.  Oblivious  of  the  two  or  three 
hundred  miles  across  Pennsylvania;  at  Pittsburgh  in  the  morning  to 
breakfast.  Pretty  good  view  of  the  city  and  Birmingham  —  fog  and 
damp,  smoke,  coke-furnaces,  flames,  discolor' d  wooden  houses,  and 
vast  collections  of  coal-barges.  Presently  a  bit  of  fine  region,  West 
Virginia,  the  Panhandle,  and  crossing  the  river,  the  Ohio.  By  day 
through  the  latter  State  —  then  Indiana  —  and  so  rock'd  to  slumber 
for  a  second  night,  flying  like  lightning  through  Illinois. 

IN    THE    SLEEPER         What  a  fierce  weird  pleasure  to  lie  in  my 

berth  at  night  in  the  luxurious  palace-car, 

drawn  by  the  mighty  Baldwin  —  embodying,  and  filling  me,  too,  full 
of  the  swiftest  motion,  and  most  resistless  strength!  It  is  late,  perhaps 
midnight  or  after  —  distances  join'd  like  magic  —  as  we  speed  through 
Harrisburg,  Columbus,  Indianapolis.  The  element  of  danger  adds 
zest  to  it  all.  On  we  go,  rumbling  and  flashing,  with  our  loud  whin 
nies  thrown  out  from  time  to  time,  or  trumpet-blasts,  into  the  dark 
ness.  Passing  the  homes  of  men,  the  farms,  barns,  cattle  —  the  silent 
villages.  And  the  car  itself,  the  sleeper,  with  curtains  drawn  and 
lights  turn'd  down — in  the  berths  the  slumberers,  many  of  them 
women  and  children  —  as  on,  on,  on,  we  fly  like  lightning  through  the 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  133 

night  — how  strangely  sound  and  sweet  they  sleep!  (They  say  the 
French  Voltaire  in  his  time  designated  the  grand  opera  and  a  ship  of 
war  the  most  signal  illustrations  of  the  growth  of  humanity's  and  art's 
advance  beyond  primitive  barbarism.  Perhaps  if  the  witty  philosopher 
were  here  these  days,  and  went  in  the  same  car  with  perfect  bedding 
and  feed  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco,  he  would  shift  his  type 
and  sample  to  one  of  our  American  sleepers.) 

MISSOURI    STATE         We  should  have  made  the  run  of  960  miles 

from  Philadelphia  to  St.  Louis  in  thirty- 
six  hours,  but  we  had  a  collision  and  bad  locomotive  smash  about  two- 
thirds  of  the  way,  which  set  us  back.  So  merely  stopping  over  night 
that  time  in  St.  Louis,  I  sped  on  westward.  As  I  cross' d  Missouri 
State  the  whole  distance  by  the  St.  Louis  and  Kansas  City  Northern 
Railroad,  a  fine  early  autumn  day,  I  thought  my  eyes  had  never  looked 
on  scenes  of  greater  pastoral  beauty.  For  over  two  hundred  miles  suc 
cessive  rolling  prairies,  agriculturally  perfect  view'd  by  Pennsylvania 
and  New  Jersey  eyes,  and  dotted  here  and  there  with  fine  timber. 
Yet  fine  as  the  land  is,  it  isn't  the  finest  portion;  (there  is  a  bed  of 
impervious  clay  and  hard-pan  beneath  this  section  that  holds  water  too 
firmly,  "drowns  the  land  in  wet  weather,  and  bakes  it  in  dry,"  as  a 
cynical  farmer  told  me.)  South  are  some  richer  tracts,  though  perhaps 
the  beauty-spots  of  the  State  are  the  northwestern  counties.  Alto 
gether,  I  am  clear,  (now,  and  from  what  I  have  seen  and  learn' d 
since,)  that  Missouri,  in  climate,  soil,  relative  situation,  wheat,  grass, 
mines,  railroads,  and  every  important  materialistic  respect,  stands  in  the 
front  rank  of  the  Union.  Of  Missouri  averaged  politically  and  socially 
I  have  heard  all  sorts  of  talk,  some  pretty  severe  — but  I  should  have 
no  fear  myself  of  getting  along  safely  and  comfortably  anywhere  among 
the  Missourians.  They  raise  a  good  deal  of  tobacco.  You  see  at  this 
time  quantities  of  the  light  greenish-gray  leaves  pulled  and  hanging  out 
to  dry  on  temporary  frameworks  or  rows  of  sticks.  Looks  much  like 
the  mullein  familiar  to  eastern  eyes. 

LAWRENCE  AND  We  thought  of  stopping  in  Kansas  City, 
TOPEKA,  KANSAS  but  when  we  got  there  we  found  a  train 

ready  and  a  crowd  of  hospitable  Kansians 

to  take  us  on  to  Lawrence,  to  which  I  proceeded.  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  my  good  days  in  L.,  in  company  with  Judge  Usher  and  his 
sons,  (especially  John  and  Linton,)  true  westerners  of  the  noblest  type. 
Nor  the  similar  days  in  Topeka.  Nor  the  brotherly  kindness  of  my 
RR.  friends  there,  and  the  city  and  State  officials.  Lawrence  and  To 
peka  are  large,  bustling,  half-rural,  handsome  cities.  I  took  two  or  three 
long  drives  about  the  latter,  drawn  by  a  spirited  team  over  smooth  roads. 


134  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

THE    PRAIRIES  At  a  large  popular  meeting  at  Topeka  — 

And  an  Undeli-veSd  Speech  the   Kansas   State  Silver  Wedding,  fifteen 

or  twenty  thousand  people  —  I  had  been 

erroneously  bilPd  to  deliver  a  poem.  As  I  seem'd  to  be  made  much 
of,  and  wanted  to  be  good-natured,  I  hastily  pencil?  d  out  the  follow 
ing  little  speech.  Unfortunately,  (or  fortunately,)  I  had  such  a  good 
time  and  rest,  and  talk  and  dinner,  with  the  U.  boys,  that  I  let  the 
hours  slip  away  and  didn't  drive  over  to  the  meeting  and  speak  my 
piece.  But  here  it  is  just  the  same  : 

"My  friends,  your  bills  announce  me  as  giving  a  poem  ;  but  I  have  no 
poem  —  have  composed  none  for  this  occasion.  And  I  can  honestly  say  I 
am  now  glad  of  it.  Under  these  skies  resplendent  in  September  beauty  — 
amid  the  peculiar  landscape  you  are  used  to,  but  which  is  new  to  me  — 
these  interminable  and  stately  prairies  —  in  the  freedom  and  vigor  and  sane 
enthusiasm  of  this  perfect  western  air  and  autumn  sunshine  —  it  seems  to 
me  a  poem  would  be  almost  an  impertinence.  But  if  you  care  to  have  a 
word  from  me,  I  should  speak  it  about  these  very  prairies  5  they  impress 
me  most,  of  all  the  objective  shows  I  see  or  have  seen  on  this,  my  first  real 
visit  to  the  West.  As  I  have  roll'd  rapidly  hither  for  more  than  a  thou 
sand  miles,  through  fair  Ohio,  through  bread-raising  Indiana  and  Illinois  — 
through  ample  Missouri,  that  contains  and  raises  everything ;  as  I  have 
partially  explored  your  charming  city  during  the  last  two  days,  and,  stand 
ing  on  Oread  hill,  by  the  university,  have  launched  my  view  across  broad 
expanses  of  living  green,  in  every  direction  —  I  have  again  been  most 
impressed,!  say,  and  shall  remain  for  the  rest  of  my  life  most  impressed,  with 
that  feature  of  the  topography  of  your  western  central  world  —  that  vast 
Something,  stretching  out  on  its  own  unbounded  scale,  unconfined,  which 
there  is  in  these  prairies,  combining  the  real  and  ideal,  and  beautiful  as  dreams. 

"I  wonder  indeed  if  the  people  of  this  continental  inland  West  know 
how  much  of  first-class  art  they  have  in  these  prairies  —  how  original  and 
all  your  own  —  how  much  of  the  influences  of  a  character  for  your  future 
humanity,  broad,  patriotic,  heroic  and  new  ?  how  entirely  they  tally  on 
land  the  grandeur  and  superb  monotony  of  the  skies  of  heaven,  and  the 
ocean  with  its  waters  ?  how  freeing,  soothing,  nourishing  they  are  to  the 
soul  ? 

"Then  is  it  not  subtly  they  who  have  given  us  our  leading  modern 
Americans,  Lincoln  and  Grant  ?  —  vast-spread,  average  men  —  their  fore 
grounds  of  character  altogether  practical  and  real,  yet  (to  those  who  have 
eyes  to  see)  with  finest  backgrounds  of  the  ideal,  towering  high  as  any. 
And  do  we  not  see,  in  them,  foreshadowings  of  the  future  races  that  shall 
fill  these  prairies  ? 

"Not  but  what  the  Yankee  and  Atlantic  States,  and  every  other  part  — 
Texas,  and  the  States  flanking  the  south-east  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  — 
the  Pacific  shore  empire  —  the  Territories  and  Lakes,  and  the  Canada  line 
(the  day  is  not  yet,  but  it  will  come,  including  Canada  entire)  —  are 
equally  and  integrally  and  indissolubly  this  Nation,  the  sine  qua  non  of  the 
human,  political  and  commercial  New  World.  But  this  favor' d  central 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  135 

area  of  (in  round  numbers)  two  thousand  miles  square  seems  fated  to  be 
the  home  both  of  what  I  would  call  America's  distinctive  ideas  and  dis 
tinctive  realities." 

ON  TO  DENVER  —      The  jaunt   of  five  or  six    hundred  miles 

A  FRONTIER  IN-          from  Topeka  to  Denver  took  me  through 

CIDENT  a  variety  of  country,  but  all  unmistakably 

prolific,   western,   American,    and  on  the 

largest  scale.  For  a  long  distance  we  follow  the  line  of  the  Kansas 
river,  (I  like  better  the  old  name,  Kaw,)  a  stretch  of  very  rich,  dark 
soil,  famed  for  its  wheat,  and  call'd  the  Golden  Belt  —  then  plains 
and  plains,  hour  after  hour  —  Ellsworth  county,  the  centre  of  the 
State  —  where  I  must  stop  a  moment  to  tell  a  characteristic  story  of 

early  days — scene  the  very  spot  where  I  am  passing time    1868. 

In  a  scrimmage  at  some  public  gathering  in  the  town,  A.  had  shot  B. 
quite  badly,  but  had  not  kilPd  him.  The  sober  men  of  Ellsworth 
conferr'd  with  one  another  and  decided  that  A.  deserv'd  punishment. 
As  they  wished  to  set  a  good  example  and  establish  their  reputation 
the  reverse  of  a  Lynching  town,  they  open  an  informal  court  and 
bring  both  men  before  them  for  deliberate  trial.  Soon  as  this  trial 
begins  the  wounded  man  is  led  forward  to  give  his  testimony.  Seeing 
his  enemy  in  durance  and  unarm' d,  B.  walks  suddenly  up  in  a  fury 
and  shoots  A.  through  the  head  —  shoots  him  dead.  The  court  is 
instantly  adjourn' d,  and  its  unanimous  members,  without  a  word  of 
debate,  walk  the  murderer  B.  out,  wounded  as  he  is,  and  hang  him. 

In  due  time  we  reach  Denver,  which  city  I  fall  in  love  with  from 
the  first,  and  have  that  feeling  confirm' d,  the  longer  I  stay  there. 
One  of  my  pleasantest  days  was  a  jaunt,  via  Platte  canon,  to  Leadville. 

AN  HOUR  ON  KE-  Jottings  from  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
NOSHA  SUMMIT  mostly  pencill'd  during  a  day's  trip  over 

the    South     Park    RR.,     returning     from 

Leadville,  and  especially  the  hour  we  were  detain' d,  (much  to  my 
satisfaction,)  at  Kenosha  summit.  As  afternoon  advances,  novelties, 
far-reaching  splendors,  accumulate  under  the  bright  sun  in  this  pure 
air.  But  I  had  better  commence  with  the  day. 

The  confronting  of  Platte  canon  just  at  dawn,  after  a  ten  miles'  ride 
in  early  darkness  on  the  rail  from  Denver  —  the  seasonable  stoppage 
at  the  entrance  of  the  caRon,  and  good  breakfast  of  eggs,  trout,  and 
nice  griddle-cakes  —  then  as  we  travel  on,  and  get  well  in  the  gorge, 
all  the  wonders,  beauty,  savage  power  of  the  scene  —  the  wild  stream 
of  water,  from  sources  of  snows,  brawling  continually  in  sight  one 
side  — the  dazzling  sun,  and  the  morning  lights  on  the  rocks  — such  turns 
and  grades  in  the  track,  squirming  around  corners,  or  up  and  down 


136  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

hills  —  far  glimpses  of  a  hundred  peaks,  titanic  necklaces,  stretching 
north  and  south — the  huge  rightly-named  Dome-rock — and  as  we 
dash  along,  others  similar,  simple,  monolithic,  elephantine. 

AN  EGOTISTICAL         "I    have    found    the    law    of    my    own 

"FIND"  poems,"  was  the  unspoken  but  more-and- 

more  decided  feeling  that  came  to  me  as  I 

pass'd,  hour  after  hour,  amid  all  this  grim  yet  joyous  elemental  abandon 
— this  plenitude  of  material,  entire  absence  of  art,  untrammel'd  play 
of  primitive  Nature  —  the  chasm,  the  gorge,  the  crystal  mountain 
stream,  repeated  scores,  hundreds  of  miles  —  the  broad  handling  and 
absolute  uncrampedness  —  the  fantastic  forms,  bathed  in  transparent 
browns,  faint  reds  and  grays,  towering  sometimes  a  thousand,  some 
times  two  or  three  thousand  feet  high — at  their  tops  now  and  then 
huge  masses  pois'd,  and  mixing  with  the  clouds,  with  only  their  out 
lines,  hazed  in  misty  lilac,  visible.  ("In  Nature's  grandest  shows," 
says  an  old  Dutch  writer,  an  ecclesiastic,  "amid  the  ocean's  depth,  if 
so  might  be,  or  countless  worlds  rolling  above  at  night,  a  man  thinks 
of  them,  weighs  all,  not  for  themselves  or  the  abstract,  but  with 
reference  to  his  own  personality,  and  how  they  may  affect  him  or  color 
his  destinies.") 

NEW  SENSES  :  NEW  We  follow  the  stream  of  amber  and  bronze 
JOYS  brawling  along  its  bed,  with  its  frequent 

cascades  and  snow-white  foam.      Through 

the  canon  we  fly — mountains  not  only  each  side,  but  seemingly, 
till  we  get  near,  right  in  front  of  us — every  rood  a  new  view  flashing, 
and  each  flash  defying  description  — on  the  almost  perpendicular  sides, 
clinging  pines,  cedars,  spruces,  crimson  sumach  bushes,  spots  of  wild 
grass  —  but  dominating  all,  those  towering  rocks,  rocks,  rocks,  bathed 
in  delicate  vari-colors,  with  the  clear  sky  of  autumn  overhead.  New 
senses,  new  joys,  seem  develop' d.  Talk  as  you  like,  a  typical  Rocky 
Mountain  canon,  or  a  limitless  sea-like  stretch  of  the  great  Kansas  or 
Colorado  plains,  under  favoring  circumstances,  tallies,  perhaps  expresses, 
certainly  awakes,  those  grandest  and  subtlest  element-emotions  in  the 
human  soul,  that  all  the  marble  temples  and  sculptures  from  Phidias  to 
Thorwaldsen —  all  paintings,  poems,  reminiscences,  or  even  music, 
probably  never  can. 

STEAM-POWER,  I  get  out  on  a  ten  minutes'  stoppage  at 

TELEGRAPHS,  ETC       Deer  creek,  to  enjoy  the   unequal' d  com 
bination  of  hill,  stone  and  wood.      As  we 

speed  again,  the  yellow  granite  in  the  sunshine,  with  natural  spires, 
minarets,  castellated  perches  far  aloft  —  then  long  stretches  of  straight- 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  137 

upright  palisades,  rhinoceros  color  —  then  gamboge  and  tinted  chromos. 
Ever  the  best  of  my  pleasures  the  cool-fresh  Colorado  atmosphere,  yet 
sufficiently  warm.  Signs  of  man's  restless  advent  and  pioneerage, 
hard  as  Nature's  face  is  —  deserted  dug-outs  by  dozens  in  the  side-hills 

the  scantling-hut,  the  telegraph-pole,  the  smoke  of  some  impromptu 

chimney  or  outdoor  fire —  at  intervals  little  settlements  of  log-houses, 
or  parties  of  surveyors  or  telegraph  builders,  with  their  comfortable 
tents.  Once,  a  canvas  office  where  you  could  send  a  message  by 
electricity  anywhere  around  the  world!  Yes,  pronounc'd  signs  of 
the  man 'of  latest  dates,  dauntlessly  grappling  with  these  grisliest^shows 
of  the  old  kosmos.  At  several  places  steam  saw-mills,  with  their  piles 
of  logs  and  boards,  and  the  pipes  puffing.  Occasionally  Platte  canon 
expanding  into  a  grassy  flat  of  a  few  acres.  At  one  such  place, 
toward  the  end,  where  we  stop,  and  I  get  out  to  stretch  my  legs,  as  I 
look  skyward,  or  rather  mountain-topward,  a  huge  hawk  or  eagle  (a 
rare  sight  here)  is  idly  soaring,  balancing  along  the  ether,  now  sinking 
low  and  coming  quite  near,  and  then  up  again  in  stately-languid  circles  — 
then  higher,  higher,  slanting  to  the  north,  and  gradually  out  of  sight. 

AMERICA'S    BACK-      I  jot  these  lines  literally  at  Kenosha  sum- 

BONE  mit,  where  we  return,  afternoon,  and  take 

a  long  rest,  10,000  feet  above  sea-level. 

At  this  immense  height  the  South  Park  stretches  fifty  miles  before  me. 
Mountainous  chains  and  peaks  in  every  variety  of  perspective,  every 
hue  of  vista,  fringe  the  view,  in  nearer,  or  middle,  or  far-dim  distance, 
or  fade  on  the  horizon.  We  have  now  reach' d,  penetrated  the 
Rockies,  (Hay den  calls  it  the  Front  Range,)  for  a  hundred  miles  or 
so;  and  though  these  chains  spread  away  in  every  direction,  specially 
north  and  south,  thousands  and  thousands  farther,  I  have  seen  speci 
mens  of  the  utmost  of  them,  and  know  henceforth  at  least  what  they 
are,  and  what  they  look  like.  Not  themselves  alone,  for  they  typify 
stretches  and  areas  of  half  the  globe  —  are,  in  fact,  the  vertebrae  or 
back-bone  of  our  hemisphere.  As  the  anatomists  say  a  man  is  only  a 
spine,  topp'd,  footed,  breasted  and  radiated,  so  the  whole  Western 
world  is,  in  a  sense,  but  an  expansion  of  these  mountains.  In  South 
America  they  are  the  Andes,  in  Central  America  and  Mexico  the  Cor 
dilleras,  and  in  our  States  they  go  under  different  names  — in  Califor 
nia  the  Coast  and  Cascade  ranges  —  thence  more  eastwardly  the  Sierra 
Nevadas  —  but  mainly  and  more  centrally  here  the  Rocky  Mountains 
proper,  with  many  an  elevation  such  as  Lincoln's,  Grey's,  Harvard's, 
Yale's,  Long's  and  Pike's  peaks,  all  over  14,000  feet  high.  (East, 
the  highest  peaks  of  the  Alleghanies,  the  Adirondacks,  the  Catskills, 
and  the  White  Mountains,  range  from  2000  to  5500  feet — only 
Mount  Washington,  in  the  latter,  6300  feet.) 


138  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

THE  PARKS  In  the  midst  of  all  here,  lie  such  beautiful 

contrasts  as  the  sunken  basins  of  the  North, 

Middle,  and  South  Parks,  (the  latter  I  am  now  on  one  side  of,  and 
overlooking,)  each  the  size  of  a  large,  level,  almost  quandrangular, 
grassy,  western  county,  walPd  in  by  walls  of  hills,  and  each  park  the 
source  of  a  river.  The  ones  I  specify  are  the  largest  in  Colorado,  but 
the  whole  of  that  State,  and  of  Wyoming,  Utah,  Nevada  and  western 
California,  through  their  sierras  and  ravines,  are  copiously  mark'd  by 
similar  spreads  and  openings,  many  of  the  small  ones  of  paradisiac  love 
liness  and  perfection,  with  their  offsets  of  mountains,  streams,  atmos 
phere  and  hues  beyond  compare. 

ART  FEATURES  Talk,  I  say  again,  of  going  to  Europe,  of 

visiting  the  ruins  of  feudal  castles,  or  Coli 
seum  remains,  or  kings'  palaces  —  when  you  can  come  here.  The 
alternations  one  gets,  too  ;  after  the  Illinois  and  Kansas  prairies  of 
a  thousand  miles  —  smooth  and  easy  areas  of  the  corn  and  wheat 
of  ten  million  democratic  farms  in  the  future  —  here  start  up  in  every 
conceivable  presentation  of  shape,  these  non-utilitarian  piles,  coping  the 
skies,  emanating  a  beauty,  terror,  power,  more  than  Dante  or  Angelo 
ever  knew.  Yes,  I  think  the  chyle  of  not  only  poetry  and  painting, 
but  oratory,  and  even  the  metaphysics  and  music  fit  for  the  New  World, 
before  being  finally  assimilated,  need  first  and  feeding  visits  here. 

Mountain  streams.  — The  spiritual  contrast  and  etheriality  of  the 
whole  region  consist  largely  to  me  in  its  never-absent  peculiar  streams 
—  the  snows  of  inaccessible  upper  areas  melting  and  running  down 
through  the  gorges  continually.  Nothing  like  the  water  of  pastoral 
plains,  or  creeks  with  wooded  banks  and  turf,  or  anything  of  the  kind 
elsewhere.  The  shapes  that  element  takes  in  the  shows  of  the  globe 
cannot  be  fully  understood  by  an  artist  until  he  has  studied  these 
unique  rivulets. 

Aerial  effects.  —  But  perhaps  as  I  gaze  around  me  the  rarest  sight  of 
all  is  in  atmospheric  hues.  The  prairies  —  as  I  cross' d  them  in  my 
journey  hither  —  and  these  mountains  and  parks,  seem  to  me  to  afford 
new  lights  and  shades.  Everywhere  the  aerial  gradations  and  sky- 
effects  inimitable;  nowhere  else  such  perspectives,  such  transparent 
lilacs  and  grays.  I  can  conceive  of  some  superior  landscape  painter, 
some  fine  colorist,  after  sketching  awhile  out  here,  discarding  all  his 
previous  work,  delightful  to  stock  exhibition  amateurs,  as  muddy,  raw 
and  artificial.  Near  one's  eye  ranges  an  infinite  variety  ;  high  up,  the 
bare  whitey-brown,  above  timber  line  ;  in  certain  spots  afar  patches  of 
snow  any  time  of  year;  (no  trees,  no  flowers,  no  birds,  at  those 
chilling  altitudes.)  As  I  write  I  see  the  Snowy  Range  through  the 
blue  mist,  beautiful  and  far  off,  I  plainly  see  the  patches  of  snow. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  139 

DENVER  IMPRES-          Through   the    long-lingering  half-light  of 
SIGNS  the  most  superb  of  evenings  we  return'd 

to    Denver,    where    I    staid    several    days 

leisurely  exploring,  receiving  impressions,  with  which  I  may  as  well 
taper  off  this  memorandum,  itemizing  what  I  saw  there.  The  best 
was  the  men,  three-fourths  of  them  large,  able,  calm,  alert,  American. 
And  cash!  why  they  create  it  here.  Out  in  the  smelting  works,  (the 
biggest  and  most  improv'd  ones,  for  the  precious  metals,  in  the  world,) 
I  saw  long  rows  of  vats,  pans,  cover' d  by  bubbling-boiling  water,  and 
fill'd  with  pure  silver,  four  or  five  inches  thick,  many  thousand  dollars' 
worth  in  a  pan.  The  foreman  who  was  showing  me  shovel' d  it 
carelessly  up  with  a  little  wooden  shovel,  as  one  might  toss  beans. 
Then  large  silver  bricks,  worth  $2000  a  brick,  dozens  of  piles,  twenty 
in  a  pile.  In  one  place  in  the  mountains,  at  a  mining  camp,  I  had  a 
few  days  before  seen  rough  bullion  on  the  ground  in  the  open  air,  like 
the  confectioner's  pyramids  at  some  swell  dinner  in  New  York.  (Such 
a  sweet  morsel  to  roll  over  with  a  poor  author's  pen  and  ink  —  and 
appropriate  to  slip  in  here  —  that  the  silver  product  of  Colorado  and 
Utah,  with  the  gold  product  of  California,  New  Mexico,  Nevada  and 
Dakota,  foots  up  an  addition  to  the  world's  coin  of  considerably  over  a 
hundred  millions  every  year.) 

A  city,  this  Denver,  well-laid  out — Laramie  street,  and  I5th  and 
1 6th  and  Champa  streets,  with  others,  particularly  fine  —  some  with 

tall  storehouses  of  stone  or  iron,  and  windows  of  plate-glass all  the 

streets  with  little  canals  of  mountain  water  running  along  the  sides 

plenty  of  people,  "business,"  modernness  —  yet  not  without  a  certain 
racy  wild  smack,  all  its  own.  A  place  of  fast  horses,  (many  mares 
with  their  colts,)  and  I  saw  lots  of  big  greyhounds  for  antelope  hunt 
ing.  Now  and  then  groups  of  miners,  some  just  come  in,  some 
starting  out,  very  picturesque. 

One  of  the  papers  here  interview' d  me,  and  reported  me  as  saying 
off-hand:  "  I  have  lived  in  or  visited  all  the  great  cities  on  the  Atlantic 
third  of  the  republic  —  Boston,  Brooklyn  with  its  hills,  New  Orleans, 
Baltimore,  stately  Washington,  broad  Philadelphia,  teeming  Cincin 
nati  and  Chicago,  and  for  thirty  years  in  that  wonder,  wash'd  by 
hurried  and  glittering  tides,  my  own  New  York,  not  only  the  New 
World's  but  the  world's  city  —  but,  newcomer  to  Denver  as  I  am, 
and  threading  its  streets,  breathing  its  air,  warm'd  by  its  sunshine, 
and  having  what  there  is  of  its  human  as  well  as  aerial  ozone  flash'd 
upon  me  now  for  only  three  or  four  days,  I  am  very  much  like  a  man 
feels  sometimes  toward  certain  people  he  meets  with,  and  warms  to, 
and  hardly  knows  why.  I,  too,  can  hardly  tell  why,  but  as  I  enter' d 
the  city  in  the  slight  haze  of  a  late  September  afternoon,  and  have 
breath' d  its  air,  and  slept  well  o'  nights,  and  have  roam'd  or  rodt 


1 40  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

leisurely,  and  watch' d  the  comers  and  goers  at  the  hotels,  and  absorb* d 
the  climatic  magnetism  of  this  curiously  attractive  region,  there  has 
steadily  grown  upon  me  a  feeling  of  affection  for  the  spot,  which,  sud 
den  as  it  is,  has  become  so  definite  and  strong  that  I  must  put  it  on 
record." 

So  much  for  my  feeling  toward  the  Queen  city  of  the  plains  and 
peaks,  where  she  sits  in  her  delicious  rare  atmosphere,  over  5000  feet 
above  sea-level,  irrigated  by  mountain  streams,  one  way  looking  east 
over  the  prairies  for  a  thousand  miles,  and  having  the  other,  westward, 
in  constant  view  by  day,  draped  in  their  violet  haze,  mountain  tops 
innumerable.  Yes,  I  fell  in  love  with  Denver,  and  even  felt  a  wish 
to  spend  my  declining  and  dying  days  there. 

I  TURN  SOUTH—  Leave  Denver  at  8  A.  M.  by  the  Rio 
AND  THEN  EAST  Grande  RR.  going  south.  Mountains 
AGAIN  constantly  in  sight  in  the  apparently  near 

distance,  veil'd  slightly,  but  still  clear  and 

very  grand  —  their  cones,  colors,  sides,  distinct  against  the  sky  — 
hundreds,  it  seem'd  thousands,  interminable  necklaces  of  them,  their 
tops  and  slopes  hazed  more  or  less  slightly  in  that  blue-gray,  under  the 
autumn  sun,  for  over  a  hundred  miles  —  the  most  spiritual  show  of 
objective  Nature  I  ever  beheld,  or  ever  thought  possible.  Occasion 
ally  the  light  strengthens,  making  a  contrast  of  yellow-tinged  silver  on 
one  side,  with  dark  and  shaded  gray  on  the  other.  I  took  a  long  look 
at  Pike's  peak,  and  was  a  little  disappointed.  (I  suppose  I  had  ex 
pected  something  stunning.)  Our  view  over  plains  to  the  left  stretches 
amply,  with  corrals  here  and  there,  the  frequent  cactus  and  wild  sage, 
and  herds  of  cattle  feeding.  Thus  about  1 20  miles  to  Pueblo.  At 
that  town  we  board  the  comfortable  and  well-equipt  Atchison,  Topeka 
and  Santa  Fe  RR.,  now  striking  east. 

UNFULFILL'D  I  had  wanted  to  go  to  the  Yellowstone 

WANTS  —  THE  AR-  river  region  —  wanted  specially  to  see  the 
KANSAS  RIVER  National  Park,  and  the  geysers  and  the 

"hoodoo"  or  goblin  land  of  that  coun 
try;  indeed,  hesitated  a  little  at  Pueblo,  the  turning  point  —  wanted 
to  thread  the  Veta  pass  —  wanted  to  go  over  the  Santa  Fe  trail  away 
south  westward  to  New  Mexico  —  but  turn'd  and  set  my  face  east 
ward —  leaving  behind  me  whetting  glimpse-tastes  of  southeastern 
Colorado,  Pueblo,  Bald  mountain,  the  Spanish  peaks,  Sangre  de 
Christos,  Mile-Shoe-curve  (which  my  veteran  friend  on  the  locomo 
tive  told  me  was  "the  boss  railroad  curve  of  the  universe,")  fort 
Garland  on  the  plains,  Veta,  and  the  three  great  peaks  of  the  Sierra 
Blancas. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  141 

The  Arkansas  river  plays  quite  a  part  in  the  whole  of  this  region  — 
I  see  it,  or  its  high-cut  rocky  northern  shore,  for  miles,  and  cross  and 
recross  it  frequently,  as  it  winds  and  squirms  like  a  snake.  The  plains 
vary  here  even  more  than  usual  —  sometimes  a  long  sterile  stretch  of 
scores  of  miles  —  then  green,  fertile  and  grassy,  an  equal  length. 
Some  very  large  herds  of  sheep.  (One  wants  new  words  in  writing 
about  these  plains,  and  all  the  inland  American  West  —  the  terms,  far, 
large  y  vast,  &c.,  are  insufficient.) 

A    SILENT   LITTLE       Here  I  must  say  a  word  about  a  little  fol- 

FOLLOWER — THE       lower,  present  even  now  before  my  eyes. 

COREOPSIS  I   have  been  accompanied  on   my  whole 

journey  from   Barnegat  to   Pike's  peak  by 

a  pleasant  floricultural  friend,  or  rather  millions  of  friends  —  nothing 
more  or  less  than  a  hardy  little  yellow  five-petal' d  September  and 
October  wild-flower,  growing  I  think  everywhere  in  the  middle  and 
northern  United  States.  I  had  seen  it  on  the  Hudson  and  over  Long 
Island,  and  along  the  banks  of  the  Delaware  and  through  New  Jersey, 
(as  years  ago  up  the  Connecticut,  and  one  fall  by  Lake  Champlain. ) 
This  trip  it  follow' d  me  regularly,  with  its  slender  stem  and  eyes  of 
gold,  from  Cape  May  to  the  Kaw  valley,  and  so  through  the  canons 
and  to  these  plains.  In  Missouri  I  saw  immense  fields  all  bright  with 
it.  Toward  western  Illinois  I  woke  up  one  morning  in  the  sleeper 
and  the  first  thing  when  I  drew  the  curtain  of  my  berth  and  look'd 
out  was  its  pretty  countenance  and  bending  neck. 

Sept.  25 tb. —  Early  morning  —  still  going  east  after  we  leave  Sterl 
ing,  Kansas,  where  I  stopp'd  a  day  and  night.  The  sun  up  about 
half  an  hour ;  nothing  can  be  fresher  or  more  beautiful  than  this  time, 
this  region.  I  see  quite  a  field  of  my  yellow  flower  in  full  bloom. 
At  intervals  dots  of  nice  two-story  houses,  as  we  ride  swiftly  by.  Over 
the  immense  area,  flat  as  a  floor,  visible  for  twenty  miles  in  every 
direction  in  the  clear  air,  a  prevalence  of  autumn-drab  and  reddish- 
tawny  herbage  —  sparse  stacks  of  hay  and  enclosures,  breaking  the 
landscape  —  as  we  rumble  by,  flocks  of  prairie-hens  starting  up.  Be 
tween  Sterling  and  Florence  a  fine  country.  (Remembrances  to  E.  L., 
my  old-young  soldier  friend  of  war  times,  and  his  wife  and  boy  at  S.) 

THE  PRAIRIES  AND     Grand  as  is  the   thought  that   doubtless 

GREAT   PLAINS  IN       the  child  is  already  born  who  will  see  a 

POETRY  hundred   millions   of    people,    the    most 

(After  traveling  Illinois,  Mis-       prosperous  and   advanc'd  of  the  world, 

uriy  Kansas  and  Colorado)          inhabiting  these  Prairies,  the  great  Plains, 

and  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  I  could 

not  help  thinking  it  would  be  grander  still  to  see  all  those  inimitable 


142  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

American  areas  fused  in  the  alembic  of  a  perfect  poem,  or  other 
esthetic  work,  entirely  western,  fresh  and  limitless  —  altogether  our 
own,  without  a  trace  or  taste  of  Europe's  soil,  reminiscence,  techni 
cal  letter  or  spirit.  My  days  and  nights,  as  I  travel  here  —  what  an 
exhilaration!  —  not  the  air  alone,  and  the  sense  of  vastness,  but  every 
local  sight  and  feature.  Everywhere  something  characteristic  —  the 
cactuses,  pinks,  buffalo  grass,  wild  sage  —  the  receding  perspective, 
and  the  far  circle-line  of  the  horizon  all  times  of  day,  especially  fore 
noon  —  the  clear,  pure,  cool,  rarefied  nutriment  for  the  lungs, 
previously  quite  unknown  —  the  black  patches  and  streaks  left  by 
surface-conflagrations — the  deep-plough*  d  furrow  of  the  "  fire-guard  " 
—  the  slanting  snow-racks  built  all  along  to  shield  the  railroad  from 
winter  drifts  —  the  prairie-dogs  and  the  herds  of  antelope  —  the 
curious  "dry  rivers"  —  occasionally  a  "dug-out"  or  corral  —  Fort 
Riley  and  Fort  Wallace  —  those  towns  of  the  northern  plains,  (like 
ships  on  the  sea,)  Eagle-Tail,  Coyot£,  Cheyenne,  Agate,  Monotony, 
Kit  Carson  —  with  ever  the  ant-hill  and  the  buffalo-wallow  —  ever 
the  herds  of  cattle  and  the  cow-boys  ("cow-punchers")  to  me  a 
strangely  interesting  class,  bright-eyed  as  hawks,  with  their  swarthy 
complexions  and  their  broad-brimm'd  hats  —  apparently  always  on 
horseback,  with  loose  arms  slightly  raised  and  swinging  as  they 
ride. 

THE  SPANISH  Between  Pueblo  and  Bent's  fort,  south- 

PEAKS  —  EVENING       ward,   in   a    clear    afternoon    sun-spell   I 

ON  THE  PLAINS  catch  exceptionally  good  glimpses  of  the 

Spanish  peaks.      We   are  in  southeastern 

Colorado  —  pass  immense  herds  of  cattle  as  our  first-class  locomotive 
rushes  us  along  —  two  or  three  times  crossing  the  Arkansas,  which 
we  follow  many  miles,  and  of  which  river  I  get  fine  views,  some 
times  for  quite  a  distance,  its  stony,  upright,  not  very  high, 
palisade  banks,  and  then  its  muddy  flats.  We  pass  Fort  Lyon  —  lots 
ofadobie  houses  —  limitless  pasturage,  appropriately  fleck' d  with 
those  herds  of  cattle  —  in  due  time  the  declining  sun  in  the  west  —  a 
sky  of  limpid  pearl  over  all  —  and  so  evening  on  the  great  plains. 
A  calm,  pensive,  boundless  landscape  —  the  perpendicular  rocks  of 
the  north  Arkansas,  hued  in  twilight  —  a  thin  line  of  violet  on  the 
southwestern  horizon  — •  the  palpable  coolness  and  slight  aroma  —  a 
belatecl  cow-boy  with  some  unruly  member  of  his  herd  —  an  emigrant 
wagon  toiling  yet  a  little  further,  the  horses  slow  and  tired  —  two  men, 
apparently  father  and  son,  jogging  along  on  foot  —  and  around  all  the 
indescribable  chiaroscuro  and  sentiment,  (profounder  than  anything  at 
sea,)  athwart  these  endless  wilds. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  143 

AMERICA'S  CHAR-  Speaking  generally  as  to  the  capacity  and 
ACTERISTIC  LAND-  sure  future  destiny  of  that  plain  and  prairie 
SCAPE  area  (larger  than  any  European  kingdom) 

it  is  the  inexhaustible  land  of  wheat,  maize, 

wool,  flax,  coal,  iron,  beef  and  pork,  butter  and  cheese,  apples  and 
grapes  —  land  of  ten  million  virgin  farms  —  to  the  eye  at  present 
wild  and  unproductive  —  yet  experts  say  that  upon  it  when  irrigated 
may  easily  be  grown  enough  wheat  to  feed  the  world.  Then  as  to 
scenery  (giving  my  own  thought  and  feeling,)  while  I  know  the 
standard  claim  is  that  Yosemite,  Niagara  falls,  the  upper  Yellowstone 
and  the  like,  afford  the  greatest  natural  shows,  I  am  not  so  sure  but  the 
Prairies  and  the  Plains,  while  less  stunning  at  first  sight,  last  longer, 
fill  the  esthetic  sense  fuller,  precede  all  the  rest,  and  make  North 
America's  characteristic  landscape. 

Indeed  through  the  whole  of  this  journey,  with  all  its  shows  and 
varieties,  what  most  impress' d  me,  and  will  longest  remain  with  me, 
are  these  same  prairies.  Day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  to  my 
eyes,  to  all  my  senses  —  the  esthetic  one  most  of  all  —  they  silently 
and  broadly  unfolded.  Even  their  simplest  statistics  are  sublime. 

EARTH'S   MOST  The  valley  of  the  Mississippi  river  and  its 

IMPORTANT  tributaries,    (this  stream  and  its    adjuncts 

STREAM  involve  a  big  part  of  the  question,)  com 

prehends  more  than  twelve  hundred  thou 
sand  square  miles,  the  greater  part  prairies.  It  is  by  far  the  most 
important  stream  on  the  globe,  and  would  seem  to  have  been  marked 
out  by  design,  slow-flowing  from  north  to  south,  through  a  dozen 
climates,  all  fitted  for  man's  healthy  occupancy,  its  outlet  unfrozen  all 
the  year,  and  its  line  forming  a  safe,  cheap  continental  avenue  for 
commerce  and  passage  from  the  north  temperate  to  the  torrid  zone. 
Not  even  the  mighty  Amazon  (though  larger  in  volume)  on  its  line  of 
east  and  west  —  not  the  Nile  in  Africa,  nor  the  Danube  in  Europe, 
nor  the  three  great  rivers  of  China,  compare  with  it.  Only  the 
Mediterranean  sea  has  play'd  some  such  part  in  history,  and  all 
through  the  past,  as  the  Mississippi  is  destined  to  play  in  the  future. 
By  its  demesnes,  water'd  and  welded  by  its  branches,  the  Missouri, 
the  Ohio,  the  Arkansas,  the  Red,  the  Yazoo,  the  St.  Francis  and 
others,  it  already  compacts  twenty-five  millions  of  people,  not  merely 
the  most  peaceful  and  money-making,  but  the  most  restless  and  warlike 
on  earth.  Its  valley,  or  reach,  is  rapidly  concentrating  the  political 
power  of  the  American  Union.  One  almost  thinks  it  //  the  Union  — 
or  soon  will  be.  Take  it  out,  with  its  radiations,  and  what  would  be 
left?  From  the  car  windows  through  Indiana,  Illinois,  Missouri,  or 
stopping  some  days  along  the  Topeka  and  Santa  Fe  road,  in  southern 
11 


i44  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Kansas,  and  indeed  wherever  I  went,  hundreds  and  thousands  of  miles 
through  this  region,  my  eyes  feasted  on  primitive  and  rich  meadows, 
some  of  them  partially  inhabited,  but  far,  immensely  far  more  un- 
touch'd,  unbroken  —  and  much  of  it  more  lovely  and  fertile  in  its 
unplough'd  innocence  than  the  fair  and  valuable  fields  of  New  York's, 
Pennsylvania's,  Maryland's  or  Virginia's  richest  farms. 

PRAIRIE  ANALO-  The  word  Prairie  is  French,  and  means 
GIES  —  THE  TREE  literally  meadow.  The  cosmical  analogies 
QUESTION  of  our  North  American  plains  are  the 

Steppes  of  Asia,  the  Pampas  and  Llanos 

of  South  America,  and  perhaps  the  Saharas  of  Africa.  Some  think 
the  plains  have  been  originally  lake-beds;  others  attribute  the  absence 
of  forests  to  the  fires  that  almost  annually  sweep  over  them — (the 
cause,  in  vulgar  estimation,  of  Indian  summer.)  The  tree  question 
will  soon  become  a  grave  one.  Although  the  Atlantic  slope,  the 
Rocky  mountain  region,  and  the  southern  portion  of  the  Mississippi 
valley,  are  well  wooded,  there  are  here  stretches  of  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  miles  where  either  not  a  tree  grows,  or  often  useless 
destruction  has  prevail' d;  and  the  matter  of  the  cultivation  and  spread 
of  forests  may  well  be  press' d  upon  thinkers  who  look  to  the  coming 
generations  of  the  prairie  States. 

MISSISSIPPI  VALLEY  Lying  by  one  rainy  day  in  Missouri  to 
LITERATURE  rest  after  quite  a  long  exploration  —  first 

trying    a    big  volume   I   found  there    of 

"Milton,  Young,  Gray,  Beattie  and  Collins,"  but  giving  it  up  for  a 
bad  job  —  enjoying  however  for  awhile,  as  often  before,  the  reading 
of  Walter  Scott's  poems,  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  "  Marmion," 
and  so  on  —  I  stopp'd  and  laid  down  the  book,  and  ponder' d  the 
thought  of  a  poetry  that  should  in  due  time  express  and  supply  the 
teeming  region  I  was  in  the  midst  of,  and  have  briefly  touch* d  upon. 
One's  mind  needs  but  a  moment's  deliberation  anywhere  in  the 
United  States  to  see  clearly  enough  that  all  the  prevalent  book  and 
library  poets,  either  as  imported  from  Great  Britain,  or  folio w'd  and 
dtypel-gang  d  here,  are  foreign  to  our  States,  copiously  as  they  are 
read  by  us  all.  But  to  fully  understand  not  only  how  absolutely  in 
opposition  to  our  times  and  lands,  and  how  little  and  cramp' d,  and 
what  anachronisms  and  absurdities  many  of  their  pages  are,  for 
American  purposes,  one  must  dwell  or  travel  awhile  in  Missouri, 
Kansas  and  Colorado,  and  get  rapport  with  their  people  and  country. 
Will  the  day  ever  come  —  no  matter  how  long  deferr'd  —  when 
those  models  and  lay-figures  from  the  British  islands  —  and  even  the 
precious  traditions  of  the  classics  —  will  be  reminiscences,  studies 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  145 

only  ?  The  pure  breath,  primitiveness,  boundless  prodigality  and 
amplitude,  strange  mixture  of  delicacy  and  power,  of  continence,  of 
real  and  ideal,  and  of  all  original  and  first-class  elements,  of  these 
prairies,  the  Rocky  mountains,  and  of  the  Mississippi  and  Missouri 
rivers  —  will  they  ever  appear  in,  and  in  some  sort  form  a  standard  for 
our  poetry  and  art  ?  (I  sometimes  think  that  even  the  ambition  of 
my  friend  Joaquin  Miller  to  put  them  in,  and  illustrate  them,  places 
him  ahead  of  the  whole  crowd.) 

Not  long  ago  I  was  down  New  York  bay,  on  a  steamer,  watching 
the  sunset  over  the  dark  green  heights  of  Navesink,  and  viewing  all 
that  inimitable  spread  of  shore,  shipping  and  sea,  around  Sandy  Hook. 
But  an  intervening  week  or  two,  and  my  eyes  catch  the  shadowy 
outlines  of  the  Spanish  peaks.  In  the  more  than  two  thousand  miles 
between,  though  of  infinite  and  paradoxical  variety,  a  curious  and 
absolute  fusion  is  doubtless  steadily  annealing,  compacting,  identifying 
all.  But  subtler  and  wider  and  more  solid,  (to  produce  such  com 
paction,)  than  the  laws  of  the  States,  or  the  common  ground  of  Con 
gress,  or  the  Supreme  Court,  or  the  grim  welding  of  our  national 
wars,  or  the  steel  ties  of  railroads,  or  all  the  kneading  and  fusing  proc 
esses  of  our  material  and  business  history,  past  or  present,  would  in 
my  opinion  be  a  great  throbbing,  vital,  imaginative  work,  or  series 
of  works,  or  literature,  in  constructing  which  the  Plains,  the  Prairies, 
and  the  Mississippi  river,  with  the  demesnes  of  its  varied  and  ample 
valley,  should  be  the  concrete  background,  and  America's  humanity, 
passions,  struggles,  hopes,  there  and  now  —  an  eclaircissement  as  it  is 
and  is  to  be,  on  the  stage  of  the  New  World,  of  all  Time's  hitherto 
drama  of  war,  romance  and  evolution  —  should  furnish  the  lambent 
fire,  the  ideal. 

AN    INTERVIEW-          Oct.  77,  '79.  —  To-day  one  of  the  news- 

ER'S    ITEM  papers  of  St.   Louis  prints  the  following 

informal  remarks  of  mine  on  American, 

especially  Western  literature:  "  We  called  on  Mr.  Whitman  yesterday 
and  after  a  somewhat  desultory  conversation  abruptly  asked  him  :  '  Do 
you  think  we  are  to  have  a  distinctively  American  literature  ? '  'It 
seems  to  me/  said  he,  'that  our  work  at  present  is  to  lay  the  founda 
tions  of  a  great  nation  in  products,  in  agriculture,  in  commerce,  in 
networks  of  intercommunication,  and  in  all  that  relates  to  the  com 
forts  of  vast  masses  of  men  and  families,  with  freedom  of  speech, 
ecclesiasticism,  &c.  These  we  have  founded  and  are  carrying  out 
on  a  grander  scale  than  ever  hitherto,  and  Ohio,  Illinois,  Indiana, 
Missouri,  Kansas  and  Colorado,  seem  to  me  to  be  the  seat  and  field 
of  these  very  facts  and  ideas.  Materialistic  prosperity  in  all  its  varied 
forms,  with  those  other  points  that  I  mentioned,  intercommunication 


146  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  freedom,  are  first  to  be  attended  to.  When  those  have  their 
results  and  get  settled,  then  a  literature  worthy  of  us  will  begin  to  be 
defined.  Our  American  superiority  and  vitality  are  in  the  bulk  of  our 
people,  not  in  a  gentry  like  the  old  world.  The  greatness  of  our 
army  during  the  secession  war,  was  in  the  rank  and  file,  and  so  with 
the  nation.  Other  lands  have  their  vitality  in  a  few,  a  class,  but  we 
have  it  in  the  bulk  of  the  people.  Our  leading  men  are  not  of  much 
account  and  never  have  been,  but  the  average  of  the  people  is  im 
mense,  beyond  all  history.  Sometimes  I  think  in  all  departments, 
literature  and  art  included,  that  will  be  the  way  our  superiority  will 
exhibit  itself.  We  will  not  have  great  individuals  or  great  leaders, 
but  a  great  average  bulk,  unprecedentedly  great.'  " 

THE  WOMEN  OF         Kansas  City. —  I  am  not  so  well  satisfied 

THE  WEST  with  what  I   see  of  the    women   of  the 

prairie  cities.      I  am  writing  this  where  I 

sit  leisurely  in  a  store  in  Main  street,  Kansas  City,  a  streaming  crowd 
on  the  sidewalks  flowing  by.  The  ladies  (and  the  same  in  Denver) 
are  all  fashionably  drest,  and  have  the  look  of  "gentility"  in  face, 
manner  and  action,  but  they  do  not  have,  either  in  physique  or  the 
mentality  appropriate  to  them,  any  high  native  originality  of  spirit  or 
body,  (as  the  men  certainly  have,  appropriate  to  them.)  They  are 
"intellectual"  and  fashionable,  but  dyspeptic-looking  and  generally 
doll-like;  their  ambition  evidently  is  to  copy  their  eastern  sisters. 
Something  far  different  and  in  advance  must  appear,  to  tally  and  com 
plete  the  superb  masculinity  of  the  west,  and  maintain  and  continue  it. 

THE  SILENT  GEN-  Sept.  28,  '/p.— So  General  Grant,  after 
ERAL  circumambiating  the  world,  has  arrived 

home  again,  landed  in  San  Francisco  yes 
terday,  from  the  ship  City  of  Tokio  from  Japan.  What  a  man  he 
is!  what  a  history!  what  an  illustration  —  his  life  —  of  the  capacities 
of  that  American  individuality  common  to  us  all.  Cynical  critics  are 
wondering  "what  the  people  can  see  in  Grant"  to  make  such  a 
hubbub  about.  They  aver  (and  it  is  no  doubt  true)  that  he  has 
hardly  the  average  of  our  day's  literary  and  scholastic  culture,  and 
absolutely  no  pronounc'd  genius  or  conventional  eminence  of  any  sort. 
Correct:  but  he  proves  how  an  average  western  farmer,  mechanic, 
boatman,  carried  by  tides  of  circumstances,  perhaps  caprices,  into  a 
position  of  incredible  military  or  civic  responsibilities,  (history  has 
presented  none  more  trying,  no  born  monarch's,  no  mark  more  shining 
for  attack  or  envy,)  may  steer  his  way  fitly  and  steadily  through  them 
all,  carrying  the  country  and  himself  with  credit  year  after  year  — 
command  over  a  million  armed  men  —  fight  more  than  fifty  pitch' d 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  14? 

battles rule  for  eight  years  a  land  larger  than   all  the  kingdoms   of 

Europe  combined— and  then,  retiring,  quietly  (with  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth)  make  the  promenade  of  the  whole  world,  through  its  courts 
and  coteries,  and  kings  and  czars  and  mikados,  and  splendidest  glitters 
and  etiquettes,  as  phlegmatically  as  he  ever  walk'd  the  portico  of  a 
Missouri  hotel  after  dinner.  I  say  all  this  is  what  people  like  — and 
I  am  sure  I  like  it.  Seems  to  me  it  transcends  Plutarch.  How  those 
old  Greeks,  indeed,  would  have  seized  on  him!  A  mere  plain  man 
—  no  art,  no  poetry  — only  practical  sense,  ability  to  do,  or  try  his 
best  to  do,  what  devolv'd  upon  him.  A  common  trader,  money 
maker,  tanner,  farmer  of  Illinois —  general  for  the  republic,  in  its 
terrific  struggle  with  itself,  in  the  war  of  attempted  secession  - 
President  following,  (a  task  of  peace,  more  difficult  than  the  war 

itself) nothing  heroic,  as  the  authorities  put  it  —  and  yet  the  greatest 

hero.      The  gods,  the  destinies,  seem  to  have  concentrated  upon  him. 

PRESIDENT  HAYES'S    Sept.  30.— I    see    President    Hayes    has 
SPEECHES  come  out  West,  passing  quite  informally 

from  point  to  point,  with  his  wife  and  a 

small  cortege  of  big  officers,  receiving  ovations,  and  making  daily  and 
sometimes  double-daily  addresses  to  the  people.  To  these  addresses 
_  all  impromptu,  and  some  would  call  them  ephemeral  - 
devote  a  memorandum.  They  are  shrewd,  good-natur'd,  face-to-face 
speeches,  on  easy  topics  not  too  deep;  but  they  give  me  some  revised 
ideas  of  oratory  —  of  a  new,  opportune  theory  and  practice  of  that  art, 
quite  changed  from  the  classic  rules,  and  adapted  to  our  days,  our 
occasions,  to  American  democracy,  and  to  the  swarming  populations 
of  the  West.  I  hear  them  criticised  as  wanting  in  dignity,  but  to  me 
they  are  just  what  they  should  be,  considering  all  the  circumstances,  who 
they  come  from,  and  who  they  are  address' d  to.  Underneath,  his 
objects  are  to  compact  and  fraternize  the  States,  encourage  their  mate 
rialistic  and  industrial  development,  soothe  and  expand  their  ^self-poise, 
and  tie  all  and  each  with  resistless  double  ties  not  only  of  inter-trade 
barter,  but  human  comradeship. 

From  Kansas  City  I  went  on  to  St.  Louis,  where  I  remain' d  nearly 
three  months,  with  my  brother  T.  J.  W.,  and  my  dear  nieces. 

ST.  LOUIS  MEMO-  Off.,  Nov.,  and  Dec.,  '79.  — The  points 
RANDA  °f  St.  Louis  are  its  position,  its  absolute 

wealth,  (the  long   accumulations  of  time 

and  trade,  solid  riches,  probably  a  higher  average  thereof  than  any 
city,)  the  unrivall'd  amplitude  of  its  well-laid-out  environage  of  broad 
plateaus,  for  future  expansion  —  and  the  great  State  of  which  it  is  the 
head.  It  fuses  northern  and  southern  qualities,  perhaps  native  and 


148  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

• 

foreign  ones,  to  perfection,  rendezvous  the  whole  stretch  of  the  Missis 
sippi  and  Missouri  rivers,  and  its  American  electricity  goes  well  with 
its  German  phlegm.  Fourth,  Fifth  and  Third  streets  are  store-streets, 
showy,  modern,  metropolitan,  with  hurrying  crowds,  vehicles,  horse- 
cars,  hubbub,  plenty  of  people,  rich  goods,  plate-glass  windows,  iron 
fronts  often  five  or  six  stories  high.  You  can  purchase  anything  in 
St.  Louis  (in  most  of  the  big  western  cities  for  the  matter  of  that)  just 
as  readily  and  cheaply  as  in  the  Atlantic  marts.  Often  in  going  about 
the  town  you  see  reminders  of  old,  even  decay'd  civilization.  The 
water  of  the  west,  in  some  places,  is  not  good,  but  they  make  it  up 
here  by  plenty  of  very  fair  wine,  and  inexhaustible  quantities  of  the 
best  beer  in  the  world.  There  are  immense  establishments  for  slaugh 
tering  beef  and  pork  —  and  I  saw  flocks  of  sheep,  5000  in  a  flock. 
(In  Kansas  City  I  had  visited  a  packing  establishment  that  kills  and 
packs  an  average  of  2500  hogs  a  day  the  whole  year  round,  for  export. 
Another  in  Atchison,  Kansas,  same  extent;  others  nearly  equal  else 
where.  And  just  as  big  ones  here. ) 

NIGHTS    ON   THE        Oct.   2gtb,  jot!>,   and  jist.—  Wonder- 

MISSISSIPPI  fully   fine,    with   the    full    harvest    moon, 

dazzling  and  silvery.      I  have  haunted  the 

river  every  night  lately,  where  I  could  get  a  look  at  the  bridge  by 
moonlight.  It  is  indeed  a  structure  of  perfection  and  beauty  unsur 
passable,  and  I  never  tire  of  it.  The  river  at  present  is  very  low  ;  I 
noticed  to-day  it  had  much  more  of  a  blue-clear  look  than  usual.  I 
hear  the  slight  ripples,  the  air  is  fresh  and  cool,  and  the  view,  up  or 
down,  wonderfully  clear,  in  the  moonlight.  I  am  out  pretty  late:  it 
is  so  fascinating,  dreamy.  The  cool  night-air,  all  the  influences,  the 
silence,  with  those  far-off  eternal  stars,  do  me  good.  I  have  been 
quite  ill  of  late.  And  so,  well-near  the  centre  of  our  national  de 
mesne,  these  night  views  of  the  Mississippi. 

UPON    OUR    OWN       "Always,  after  supper,  take  a  walk  half  a 

LAND  mile  long,"   says    an   old  proverb,    dryly 

adding,  "and  if  convenient  let  it  be  upon 

your  own  land."  I  wonder  does  any  other  nation  but  ours  afford 
opportunity  for  such  a  jaunt  as  this  ?  Indeed  has  any  previous  period 
afforded  it  ?  No  one,  I  discover,  begins  to  know  the  real  geographic, 
democratic,  indissoluble  American  Union  in  the  present,  or  suspect  it 
in  the  future,  until  he  explores  these  Central  States,  and  dwells  awhile 
observantly  on  their  prairies,  or  amid  their  busy  towns,  and  the  mighty 
father  of  waters.  A  ride  of  two  or  three  thousand  miles,  "on  one's 
own  land,"  with  hardly  a  disconnection,  could  certainly  be  had  in  no 
other  place  than  the  United  States,  and  at  no  period  before  this.  If 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  149 

you  want  to  see  what  the  railroad  is,  and  how  civilization  and  progress 

date  from  it how  it  is  the  conqueror  of  crude  nature,  which  it  turns 

to  man's  use,  both  on  small  scales  and  on  the  largest  —  come  hither  to 
inland  America. 

I  return' d  home,  east,  Jan.  5,  I  880,  having  travers'd,  to  and  fro  and 
across,  10,000  miles  and  more.  I  soon  resumed  my  seclusions  down 
in  the  woods,  or  by  the  creek,  or  gaddings  about  cities,  and  an  occa 
sional  disquisition,  as  will  be  seen  following. 

EDGAR    POE'S    SIG-      Jan.  /,  '80. —  In  diagnosing  this  disease 

NIFICANCE  called  humanity  —  to  assume  for  the  nonce 

what  seems  a  chief  mood  of  the  personality 

and  writings  of  my  subject  —  I  have  thought  that  poets,  somewhere 
or  other  on  the  list,  present  the  most  mark'd  indications.  Compre 
hending  artists  in  a  mass,  musicians,  painters,  actors,  and  so  on,  and 
considering  each  and  all  of  them  as  radiations  or  flanges  of  that  furious 
whirling  wheel,  poetry,  the  centre  and  axis  of  the  whole,  where  else 
indeed  may  we  so  well  investigate  the  causes,  growths,  tally-marks  of 
the  time — the  age's  matter  and  malady  ? 

By  common  consent  there  is  nothing  better  for  man  or  woman  than 
a  perfect  and  noble  life,  morally  without  flaw,  happily  balanced  in 
activity,  physically  sound  and  pure,  giving  its  due  proportion,  and  no 
more,  to  the  sympathetic,  the  human  emotional  element  —  a  life,  in  all 
these,  unhasting,  unresting,  untiring  to  the  end.  And  yet  there  is 
another  shape  of  personality  dearer  far  to  the  artist-sense,  (which  likes 
the  play  of  strongest  lights  and  shades,)  where  the  perfect  character, 
the  good,  the  heroic,  although  never  attain' d,  is  never  lost  sight  of, 
but  through  failures,  sorrows,  temporary  downfalls,  is  return' d  to 
again  and  again,  and  while  often  violated,  is  passionately  adhered  to  as 
long  as  mind,  muscles,  voice,  obey  the  power  we  call  volition.  This 
sort  of  personality  we  see  more  or  less  in  Burns,  Byron,  Schiller,  and 
George  Sand.  But  we  do  not  see  it  in  Edgar  Poe.  (All  this  is  the 
result  of  reading  at  intervals  the  last  three  days  a  new  volume  of  his 

poems I  took  it  on  my  rambles  down  by  the  pond,  and  by  degrees 

read  it  all  through  there.)  While  to  the  character  first  outlined  the 
service  Poe  renders  is  certainly  that  entire  contrast  and  contradiction 
which  is  next  best  to  fully  exemplifying  it. 

Almost  without  the  first  sign  of  moral  principle,  or  of  the  concrete  or 
its  heroisms,  or  the  simpler  affections  of  the  heart,  Poe's  verses  illus 
trate  an  intense  faculty  for  technical  and  abstract  beauty,  with  the 
rhyming  art  to  excess,  an  incorrigible  propensity  toward  nocturnal 
themes,  a  demoniac  undertone  behind  every  page  —  and,  by  final 
judgment,  probably  belong  among  the  electric  lights  of  imaginative 
literature,  brilliant  and  dazzling,  but  with  no  heat.  There  is  an  in- 


150  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

describable  magnetism  about  the  poet's  life  and  reminiscences,  as  well 
as  the  poems.  To  one  who  could  work  out  their  subtle  retracing  and 
retrospect,  the  latter  would  make  a  close  tally  no  doubt  between  the 
author's  birth  and  antecedents,  his  childhood  and  youth,  his  physique, 
his  so-call'd  education,  his  studies  and  associates,  the  literary  and  social 
Baltimore,  Richmond,  Philadelphia  and  New  York,  of  those  times  — 
not  only  the  places  and  circumstances  in  themselves,  but  often,  very 
often,  in  a  strange  spurning  of,  and  reaction  from  them  all. 

The  following  from  a  report  in  the  Washington  "Star"  of  No 
vember  1 6,  1875,  mav  afford  those  who  care  for  it  something  further 
of  my  point  of  view  toward  this  interesting  figure  and  influence  of 
our  era.  There  occurr'd  about  that  date  in  Baltimore  a  public  reburial 
of  Poe's  remains,  and  dedication  of  a  monument  over  the  grave  : 

"Being  in  Washington  on  a  visit  at  the  time,  <the  old  gray'  went  over 
to  Baltimore,  and  though  ill  from  paralysis,  consented  to  hobble  up  and 
silently  take  a  seat  on  the  platform,  but  refused  to  make  any  speech,  say 
ing,  *  I  have  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  come  over  and  be  here  to-day  myself 
in  memory  of  Poe,  which  I  have  obey'd,  but  not  the  slightest  impulse  to 
make  a  speech,  which,  my  dear  friends,  must  also  be  obeyed.'  In  an  in 
formal  circle,  however,  in  conversation  after  the  ceremonies,  Whitman 
said  :  *  For  a  long  while,  and  until  lately,  I  had  a  distaste  for  Poe's  writ 
ings.  I  wanted,  and  still  want  for  poetry,  the  clear  sun  shining,  and  fresh 
air  blowing  —  the  strength  and  power  of  health,  not  of  delirium,  even  amid 
the  stormiest  passions  —  with  always  the  background  of  the  eternal  moral 
ities.  Non-complying  with  these  requirements,  Poe's  genius  has  yet  con 
quer' d  a  special  recognition  for  itself,  and  I  too  have  come  to  fully  admit 
it,  and  appreciate  it  and  him. 

"  <In  a  dream  I  once  had,  I  saw  a  vessel  on  the  sea,  at  midnight,  in  a 
storm.  It  was  no  great  full-rigg'd  ship,  nor  majestic  steamer,  steering 
firmly  through  the  gale,  but  seem'd  one  of  those  superb  little  schooner 
yachts  I  had  often  seen  lying  anchor' d,  rocking  so  jauntily,  in  the  waters 
around  New  York,  or  up  Long  Island  sound  —  now  flying  uncontroll'd 
with  torn  sails  and  broken  spars  through  the  wild  sleet  and  winds  and 
waves  of  the  night.  On  the  deck  was  a  slender,  slight,  beautiful  figure,  a 
dim  man,  apparently  enjoying  all  the  terror,  the  murk,  and  the  dislocation 
of  which  he  was  the  centre  and  the  victim.  That  figure  of  my  lurid  dream 
might  stand  for  Edgar  Poe,  his  spirit,  his  fortunes,  and  his  poems  —  them 
selves  all  lurid  dreams.'  ' 

Much  more  may  be  said,  but  I  most  desired  to  exploit  the  idea 
put  at  the  beginning.  By  its  popular  poets  the  calibres  of  an  age, 
the  weak  spots  of  its  embankments,  its  sub-currents,  (often  more 
significant  than  the  biggest  surface  ones,)  are  unerringly  indicated. 
The  lush  and  the  weird  that  have  taken  such  extraordinary  possession 
of  Nineteenth  century  verse-lovers  —  what  mean  they  ?  The  inevi 
table  tendency  of  poetic  culture  to  morbidity,  abnormal  beauty  —  the 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  151 

sickliness  of  all  technical  thought  or  refinement  in  itself— the  abne 
gation  of  the  perennial  and  democratic  concretes  at  first  hand,  the 
body,  the  earth  and  sea,  sex  and  the  like  — and  the  substitution  of 
something  for  them  at  second  or  third  hand  —  what  bearings  have 
they  on  current  pathological  study  ? 

BEETHOVEN'S  SEP-  Feb.  //,  *8o.—  At  a  good  concert  to- 
TETTE  night  in  the  foyer  of  the  opera  house, 

Philadelphia  —  the  band  a  small  but  first- 
rate  one.  Never  did  music  more  sink  into  and  soothe  and  fill  me  — 
never  so  prove  its  soul-rousing  power,  its  impossibility  of  statement. 
Especially  in  the  rendering  of  one  of  Beethoven's  master  septettes  by 
the  well-chosen  and  perfectly-combined  instruments  (violins,  viola, 
clarionet,  horn,  'cello  and  contrabass,)  was  I  carried  away,  seeing, 
absorbing  many  wonders.  Dainty  abandon,  sometimes  as  if  Nature 
laughing  on  a  hillside  in  the  sunshine;  serious  and  firm  monotonies, 
as  of  winds;  a  horn  sounding  through  the  tangle  of  the  forest,  and 
the  dying  echoes;  soothing  floating  of  waves,  but  presently  rising  in 
surges,  angrily  lashing,  muttering,  heavy;  piercing  peals  of  laughter, 
for  interstices;  now  and  then  weird,  as  Nature  herself  is  in  certain 
moods  —  but  mainly  spontaneous,  easy,  careless  —  often  the  sentiment 
of  the  postures  of  naked  children  playing  or  sleeping.  It  did  me  good 
even  to  watch  the  violinists  drawing  their  bows  so  masterly  —  every 
motion  a  study.  I  allow' d  myself,  as  I  sometimes  do,  to  wander  put 
of  myself.  The  conceit  came  to  me  of  a  copious  grove  of  singing 
birds,  and  in  their  midst  a  simple  harmonic  duo,  two  human  souls, 
steadily  asserting  their  own  pensiveness,  joyousness. 

A  HINT  OF  WILD  Feb.  ij.  —  As  I  was  crossing  the  Dela- 
NATURE  ware  to-day,  saw  a  large  flock  of  wild 

geese,  right  overhead,  not  very  high  up, 

ranged  in  V-shape,  in  relief  against  the  noon  clouds  of  light  smoke- 
color.  Had  a  capital  though  momentary  view  of  them,  and  then  of 
their  course  on  and  on  southeast,  till  gradually  fading —  (my  eyesight 
yet  first  rate  for  the  open  air  and  its  distances,  but  I  use  glasses  for 
reading.)  Queer  thoughts  melted  into  me  the  two  or  three  minutes, 
or  less,  seeing  these  creatures  cleaving  the  sky  —  the  spacious,  airy 
realm  —  even  the  prevailing  smoke-gray  color  everywhere,  (no  sun 
shining)  —  the  waters  below  —  the  rapid  flight  of  the  birds,  appearing 
just  for  a  minute  —  flashing  to  me  such  a  hint  of  the  whole  spread 
of  Nature,  with  her  eternal  unsophisticated  freshness,  her  never- 
visited  recesses  of  sea,  sky,  shore  —  and  then  disappearing  in  the  dis 


tance. 


152  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

LOAFING    IN    THE        March  8.  —  I   write  this   down  in   the 

WOODS  country  again,  but  in  a  new  spot,  seated 

on    a    log    in    the    woods,  warm,  sunny, 

midday.  Have  been  loafing  here  deep  among  the  trees,  shafts  of  tall 
pines,  oak,  hickory,  with  a  thick  undergrowth  of  laurels  and  grape 
vines —  the  ground  cover' d  everywhere  by  debris,  dead  leaves,  break 
age,  moss  —  everything  solitary,  ancient,  grim.  Paths  (such  as  they 
are)  leading  hither  and  yon —  (how  made  I  know  not,  for  nobody 
seems  to  come  here,  nor  man  nor  cattle-kind.)  Temperature  to-day 
about  60,  the  wind  through  the  pine-tops;  I  sit  and  listen  to  its  hoarse 
sighing  above  (and  to  the  stillness)  long  and  long,  varied  by  aimless 
rambles  in  the  old  roads  and  paths,  and  by  exercise-pulls  at  the  young 
saplings,  to  keep  my  joints  from  getting  stiff.  Blue-birds,  robins, 
meadow-larks  begin  to  appear. 

Next  day,  gtb.  —  A  snowstorm  in  the  morning,  and  continuing 
most  of  the  day.  But  I  took  a  walk  over  two  hours,  the  same  woods 
and  paths,  amid  the  falling  flakes.  No  wind,  yet  the  musical  low 
murmur  through  the  pines,  quite  pronounced,  curious,  like  waterfalls, 
now  still'd,  now  pouring  again.  All  the  senses,  sight,  sound,  smell, 
delicately  gratified.  Every  snowflake  lay  where  it  fell  on  the  ever 
greens,  holly-trees,  laurels,  &c.,  the  multitudinous  leaves  and  branches 
piled,  bulging- white,  defined  by  edge-lines  of  emerald  —  the  tall 
straight  columns  of  the  plentiful  bronze-topt  pines  —  a  slight  resinous 
odor  blending  with  that  of  the  snow.  (For  there  is  a  scent  to  every 
thing,  even  the  snow,  if  you  can  only  detect  it  —  no  two  places, 
hardly  any  two  hours,  anywhere,  exactly  alike.  How  different  the 
odor  of  noon  from  midnight,  or  winter  from  summer,  or  a  windy 
spell  from  a  still  one.) 

A    CONTRALTO  May  9,  Sunday.  —  Visit  this  evening  to 

VOICE  my    friends    the   J.'s —  good    supper,    to 

which    I    did   justice  —  lively   chat   with 

Mrs.  J.  and  I.  and  J.  As  I  sat  out  front  on  the  walk  afterward,  in 
the  evening  air,  the  church-choir  and  organ  on  the  corner  opposite 
gave  Luther's  hymn,  Bin  feste  berg,  very  finely.  The  air  was  borne 
by  a  rich  contralto.  For  nearly  half  an  hour  there  in  the  dark  (there 
was  a  good  string  of  English  stanzas,)  came  the  music,  firm  and  un 
hurried,  with  long  pauses.  The  full  silver  star-beams  of  Lyra  rose 
silently  over  the  church's  dim  roof- ridge.  Vari-color'd  lights  from 
the  stain' d  glass  windows  broke  through  the  tree-shadows.  And 
under  all  —  under  the  Northern  Crown  up  there,  and  in  the  fresh 
breeze  below,  and  the  chiaroscuro  of  the  night,  that  liquid-full  con 
tralto. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  153 

SEEING    NIAGARA        June  4,  '80.  —  For  really  seizing  a  great 
TO    ADVANTAGE          picture   or  book,    or  piece   of  music,    or 

architecture,  or  grand  scenery  —  or  per 
haps  for  the  first  time  even  the  common  sunshine,  or  landscape,  or 
may-be  even  the  mystery  of  identity,  most  curious  mystery  of  all  - 
there  comes  some  lucky  five  minutes  of  a  man's  life,  set  amid  a  fortu 
itous  concurrence  of  circumstances,  and  bringing  in  a  brief  flash  the 
culmination  of  years  of  reading  and  travel  and  thought.  The  present 
case  about  two  o'clock  this  afternoon,  gave  me  Niagara,  its  superb 
severity  of  action  and  color  and  majestic  grouping,  in  one  short,  inde 
scribable  show.  We  were  very  slowly  crossing  the  Suspension  bridge 

not  a  full  stop  anywhere,  but  next  to  it  —  the  day  clear,  sunny, 

still —  and  I  out  on  the  platform.  The  falls  were  in  plain  view  about 
a  mile  off,  but  very  distinct,  and  no  roar  — hardly  a  murmur, 
river  tumbling  green  and  white,  far  below  me ;  the  dark  high  banks, 
the  plentiful  umbrage,  many  bronze  cedars,  in  shadow ;  and  tempering 
and  arching  all  the  immense  materiality,  a  clear  sky  overhead,  with  a 
few  white  clouds,  limpid,  spiritual,  silent.  Brief,  and  as  quiet  as  brief, 
that  picture  —  a  remembrance  always  afterwards.  Such  are  the  things, 
indeed,  I  lay  away  with  my  life's  rare  and  blessed  bits  of  hours,  remi 
niscent,  past  —  the  wild  sea-storm  I  once  saw  one  winter  day,  off  Fire 
island  — the  elder  Booth  in  Richard,  that  famous  night  forty  years  ago 
in  the  old  Bowery  —  or  Alboni  in  the  children's  scene  in  Norma  —  or 
night-views,  I  remember,  on  the  field,  after  battles  in  Virginia  —  or 
the  peculiar  sentiment  of  moonlight  and  stars  over  the  great  Plains, 
western  Kansas  —  or  scooting  up  New  York  bay,  with  a  stiff  breeze 
and  a  good  yacht,  off  Navesink.  With  these,  I  say,  I  henceforth 
place  that  view,  that  afternoon,  that  combination  complete,  that  five 
minutes'  perfect  absorption  of  Niagara— not  the  great  majestic  gem 
alone  by  itself,  but  set  complete  in  all  its  varied,  full,  indispensable 
surroundings. 

JAUNTING  TO  To  go  back  a  little,   I  left  Philadelphia, 

CANADA  9th  and  Green  streets,  at  8  o'clock  p.  M., 

June   3,   on   a   first-class   sleeper,    by    the 

Lehigh  Valley  (North  Pennsylvania)  route,  through  Bethlehem, 
Wilkesbarre,  Waverly,  and  so  (by  Erie)  on  through  Corning  to 
Hornellsville,  where  we  arrived  at  8,  morning,  and  had  a  bounteous 
breakfast.  I  must  say  I  never  put  in  such  a  good  night  on  any  railroad 

track smooth,  firm,   the  minimum  of  jolting,  and  all  the  swiftness 

compatible  with  safety.  So  without  change  to  Buffalo,  and  thence  to 
Clifton,  where  we  arrived  early  afternoon;  then  on  to  London, 
Ontario,  Canada,  in  four  more  —  less  than  twenty-two  hours  alto 
gether.  I  am  domiciled  at  the  hospitable  house  of  my  friends  Dr.  and 


154  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Mrs.  Bucke,  in  the  ample  and  charming  garden  and  lawns  of  the 
asylum. 

SUNDAY  WITH  THE     June   6.—  Went    over   to    the  religious 

INSANE  services  (Episcopal)   main  Insane  asylum, 

held  in  a  lofty,  good-sized  hall,  third  story. 

Plain  boards,  whitewash,  plenty  of  cheap  chairs,  no  ornament  or  color, 
yet  all  scrupulously  clean  and  sweet.  Some  three  hundred  persons 
present,  mostly  patients.  Everything,  the  prayers,  a  short  sermon, 
the  firm,  orotund  voice  of  the  minister,  and  most  of  all,  beyond  any 
portraying,  or  suggesting,  that  audience,  deeply  impress' d  me.  I  was 
furnish* d  with  an  arm-chair  near  the  pulpit,  and  sat  facing  the  motley, 
yet  perfectly  well-behaved  and  orderly  congregation.  The  quaint 
dresses  and  bonnets  of  some  of  the  women,  several  very  old  and  gray, 
here  and  there  like  the  heads  in  old  pictures.  O  the  looks  that  came 
from  those  faces!  There  were  two  or  three  I  shall  probably  never 
forget.  Nothing  at  all  markedly  repulsive  or  hideous  —  strange 
enough  I  did  not  see  one  such.  Our  common  humanity,  mine  and 
yours,  everywhere: 

"The  same  old  blood  —  the  same  red,  running  blood  5 " 

yet  behind  most,  an  inferred  arriere  of  such  storms,  such  wrecks,  such 
mysteries,  fires,  love,  wrong,  greed  for  wealth,  religious  problems, 
crosses  —  mirror' d  from  those  crazed  faces  (yet  now  temporarily  so 
calm,  like  still  waters,)  all  the  woes  and  sad  happenings  of  life  and 
death  —  now  from  every  one  the  devotional  element  radiating  —  was 
it  not,  indeed,  the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  all  understanding,  strange 
as  it  may  sound  ?  I  can  only  say  that  I  took  long  and  searching  eye- 
sweeps  as  I  sat  there,  and  it  seem' d  so,  rousing  unprecedented  thoughts, 
problems  unanswerable.  A  very  fair  choir,  and  melodeon  accompani 
ment.  They  sang  "Lead,  kindly  light,"  after  the  sermon.  Many 
join'd  in  the  beautiful  hymn,  to  which  the  minister  read  the  introduc 
tory  text,  In  the  daytime  also  He  led  them  with  a  cloud,  and  all  the 
night  with  a  light  of  fire.  Then  the  words: 

Lead,  kindly  light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on. 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home  j 

Lead  thou  me  on. 

Keep  thou  my  feet  ;  I  do  not  ask  to*see 
The  distant  scene  ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  thou 

Should1  st  lead  me  on  ; 
I  lov'd  to  choose  and  see  my  path  j  but  now 

Lead  thou  me  on. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  155 

I  loved  the  garish  day,  and  spite  of  fears 
Pride  ruled  my  will ;  remember  not  past  years. 

A  couple  of  days  after,  I  went  to  the  "  Refractory  building,"  under 
special  charge  of  Dr.  Beemer,  and  through  the  wards  pretty  thoroughly, 
both  the  men's  and  women's.  I  have  since  made  many  other  visits  of 
the  kind  through  the  asylum,  and  around  among  the  detach' d  cottages. 
As  far  as  I  could  see,  this  is  among  the  most  advanced,  perfected,  and 
kindly  and  rationally  carried  on,  of  all  its  kind  in  America.  It  is 
a  town  in  itself,  with  many  buildings  and  a  thousand  inhabitants. 

I  learn  that  Canada,  and  especially  this  ample  and  populous  province, 
Ontario,  has  the  very  best  and  plentiest  benevolent  institutions  in  all 
departments. 

REMINISCENCE  OF  June  £. —To-day  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
ELIAS  HICKS  E.  S.  L.,  Detroit,  accompanied  in  a  little 

post-office  roll  by  a  rare  old  engraved  head 

of  Elias  Hicks,  (from  a  portrait  in  oil  by  Henry  Inman,  painted  for 
J.  V.  S.,  must  have  been  60  years  or  more  ago,  in  New  York)  - 
among  the  rest  the  following  excerpt  about  E.  H.  in  the  letter: 

"  I  have  listened  to  his  preaching  so  often  when  a  child,  and  sat  with  my 
mother  at  social  gatherings  where  he  was  the  centre,  and  every  one  so 
pleas' d  and  stirr'd  by  his  conversation.  I  hear  that  you  contemplate  writ 
ing  or  speaking  about  him,  and  I  wondef  d  whether  you  had  a  picture  of 
him.  As  I  am  the  owner  of  two,  I  send  you  one." 

GRAND  NATIVE  In  a  few  days  I  go  to  lake  Huron,  and 

GROWTH  may  have  something  to  say  of  that  region 

and  people.      From  what  I  already  see,  I 

should  say  the  young  native  population  of  Canada  was  growing  up, 
forming  a  hardy,  democratic,  intelligent,  radically  sound,  and  just  as 
American,  good-natured  and  individualistic  race,  as  the  average  range 
of  best  specimens  among  us.  As  among  us,  too,  I  please  myself  by 
considering  that  this  element,  though  it  may  not  be  the  majority, 
promises  to  be  the  leaven  which  must  eventually  leaven  the  whole  lump. 

A  ZOLLVEREIN  BE-  Some  of  the  more  liberal  of  the  presses 
TWEEN  THE  U.  S.  here  are  discussing  the  question  of  a  zoll- 
AND  CANADA  verein  between  the  United  States  and 

Canada.      It  is  proposed  to  form  a  union 

for  commercial  purposes  —  to  altogether  abolish  the  frontier  tariff  line, 
with  its  double  sets  of  custom  house  officials  now  existing  between  the 
two  countries,  and  to  agree  upon  one  tariff  for  both,  the  proceeds  of 
this  tariff  to  be  divided  between  the  two  governments  on  the  basis  of 


156  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

population.  It  is  said  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  merchants  of 
Canada  are  in  favor  of  this  step,  as  they  believe  it  would  materially 
add  to  the  business  of  the  country,  by  removing  the  restrictions  that 
now  exist  on  trade  between  Canada  and  the  States.  Those  persons 
who  are  opposed  to  the  measure  believe  that  it  would  increase  the 
material  welfare  of  the  country,  but  it  would  loosen  the  bonds  between 
Canada  and  England;  and  this  sentiment  overrides  the  desire  for  com 
mercial  prosperity.  Whether  the  sentiment  can  continue  to  bear  the 
strain  put  upon  it  is  a  question.  It  is  thought  by  many  that  commer 
cial  considerations  must  in  the  end  prevail.  It  seems  also  to  be  gener 
ally  agreed  that  such  a  zollverein,  or  common  customs  union,  would 
bring  practically  more  benefits  to  the  Canadian  provinces  than  to  the 
United  States.  (It  seems  to  me  a  certainty  of  time,  sooner  or  later, 
that  Canada  shall  form  two  or  three  grand  States,  equal  and  indepen 
dent,  with  the  rest  of  the  American  Union.  The  St.  Lawrence  and 
lakes  are  not  for  a  frontier  line,  but  a  grand  interior  or  mid-channel.) 

THE  ST.  LAWRENCE     August  20. —  Premising  that  my  three  or 

LINE  four    months    in    Canada  were  intended, 

among  the  rest,  as  an  exploration   of  the 

line  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  from  lake  Superior  to  the  sea,  (the  engineers 
here  insist  upon  considering  it  as  one  stream,  over  2000  miles  long, 
including  lakes  and  Niagara  and  all) — that  I  have  only  partially  car 
ried  out  my  programme;  but  for  the  seven  or  eight  hundred  miles  so  far 
fulfill' d,  I  find  that  the  Canada  question  is  absolutely  control' d  by  this 
vast  water  line,  with  its  first-class  features  and  points  of  trade,  human 
ity,  and  many  more  —  here  I  am  writing  this  nearly  a  thousand  miles 
north  of  my  Philadelphia  starting-point  (by  way  of  Montreal  and 
Quebec)  in  the  midst  of  regions  that  go  to  a  further  extreme  of  grim- 
Aess,  wildness  of  beauty,  and  a  sort  of  still  and  pagan  scaredness,  while 
yet  Christian,  inhabitable,  and  partially  fertile,  than  perhaps  any  other 
on  earth.  The  weather  remains  perfect;  some  might  call  it  a  little 
cool,  but  I  wear  my  old  gray  overcoat  and  find  it  just  right.  The 
days  are  full  of  sunbeams  and  oxygen.  Most  of  the  forenoons  and 
afternoons  I  am  on  the  forward  deck  of  the  steamer. 

THE  SAVAGE  SA-         Up   these    black  waters,   over  a  hundred 

GUENAY  miles  —  always  strong,    deep,     (hundreds 

of  feet,  sometimes  thousands,)  ever  with 

high,  rocky  hills  for  banks,  green  and  gray —  at  times  a  little  like  some 
parts  of  the  Hudson,  but  much  more  pronounc'd  and  defiant.  The 
hills  rise  higher — keep  their  ranks  more  unbroken.  The  river  is 
straighter  and  of  more  resolute  flow,  and  its  hue,  though  dark  as  ink, 
exquisitely  polish' d  and  sheeny  under  the  August  sun.  Different, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  157 

indeed,  this  Saguenay  from  all  other  rivers  —  different  effects  —  a 
bolder,  more  vehement  play  of  lights  and  shades.  Of  a  rare  charm  of 
singleness  and  simplicity.  (Like  the  organ-chant  at  midnight  from  the 
old  Spanish  convent,  in  "  Favorita  " — one  strain  only,  simple  and 
monotonous  and  unornamented  —  but  indescribably  penetrating  and 
grand  and  masterful.)  Great  place  for  echoes:  while  our  steamer  was 
tied  at  the  wharf  at  Tadousac  (taj-oo-sac)  waiting,  the  escape-pipe 
letting  off  steam,  I  was  sure  I  heard  a  band  at  the  hotel  up  in  the 
rocks  —  could  even  make  out  some  of  the  tunes.  Only  when  our 
pipe  stopp'd,  I  knew  what  caused  it.  Then  at  cape  Eternity  and 
Trinity  rock,  the  pilot  with  his  whistle  producing  similar  marvellous 
results,  echoes  indescribably  weird,  as  we  lay  off  in  the  still  bay  under 
their  shadows. 

CAPES  ETERNITY  But  the  great,  haughty,  silent  capes  them- 

AND  TRINITY  selves;    I  doubt  if  any  crack  points,  or 

hills,  or  historic  places  of  note,  or  any 
thing  of  the  kind  elsewhere  in  the  world,  outvies  these  objects  —  (I 
write  while  I  am  before  them  face  to  face.)  They  are  very  simple, 
they  do  not  startle  —  at  least  they  did  not  me — but  they  linger  in 
one's  memory  forever.  They  are  placed  very  near  each  other,  side 
by  side,  each  a  mountain  rising  flush  out  of  the  Saguenay.  A  good 
thrower  could  throw  a  stone  on  each  in  passing  —  at  least  it  seems  so. 
Then  they  are  as  distinct  in  form  as  a  perfect  physical  man  or  a  perfect 
physical  woman.  Cape  Eternity  is  bare,  rising,  as  just  said,  sheer  out 
of  the  water,  rugged  and  grim  (yet  with  an  indescribable  beauty) 
nearly  two  thousand  feet  high.  Trinity  rock,  even  a  little  higher, 
also  rising  flush,  top-rounded  like  a  great  head  with  close-cut  verdure 
of  hair.  I  consider  myself  well  repaid  for  coming  my  thousand  miles 
to  get  the  sight  and  memory  of  the  unrivalPd  duo.  They  have  stirr'd 
me  more  profoundly  than  anything  of  the  kind  I  have  yet  seen.  If 
Europe  or  Asia  had  them,  we  should  certainly  hear  of  them  in  all  sorts 
of  sent-back  poems,  rhapsodies,  &c.,  a  dozen  times  a  year  through 
our  papers  and  magazines. 

CHICOUTIMI  AND  No  indeed  —  life  and  travel  and  memory 
HA-HA  BAY  have  offer* d  and  will  preserve  to  me  no 

deeper-cut  incidents,   panorama,  or  sights 

to  cheer  my  soul,  than  these  at  Chicoutimi  and  Ha-ha  bay,  and  my 
days  and  nights  up  and  down  this  fascinating  savage  river  —  the 
rounded  mountains,  some  bare  and  gray,  some  dull  red,  some  draped 
close  all  over  with  matted  green  verdure  or  vines  —  the  ample,  calm, 
eternal  rocks  everywhere  —  the  long  streaks  of  motley  foam,  a  milk- 
white  curd  on  the  glistening  breast  of  the  stream  —  the  little  two- 


158  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

masted  schooner,  dingy  yellow,  with  patch'd  sails,  set  wing-and-wing, 
nearing  us,  coming  saucily  up  the  water  with  a  couple  of  swarthy, 
black-hair' d  men  aboard  —  the  strong  shades  falling  on  the  light  gray 
or  yellow  outlines  of  the  hills  all  through  the  forenoon,  as  we  steam 
within  gunshot  of  them  —  while  ever  the  pure  and  delicate  sky  spreads 
over  all.  And  the  splendid  sunsets,  and  the  sights  of  evening  —  the 
same  old  stars,  (relatively  a  little  different,  I  see,  so  far  north)  Arctu- 
rus  and  Lyra,  and  the  Eagle,  and  great  Jupiter  like  a  silver  globe,  and 
the  constellation  of  the  Scorpion.  Then  northern  lights  nearly  every 
night. 

THE  INHABITANTS     Grim  and  rocky  and  black-water'd  as  the 

—  GOOD    LIVING          demesne  hereabout  is,  however,  you  must 

not  think  genial   humanity,  and   comfort, 

and  good-living  are  not  to  be  met.  Before  I  began  this  memorandum 
I  made  a  first-rate  breakfast  of  sea-trout,  finishing  off  with  wild  rasp 
berries.  I  find  smiles  and  courtesy  everywhere — physiognomies  in 
general  curiously  like  those  in  the  United  States —  (I  was  astonish' d 
to  find  the  same  resemblance  all  through  the  province  of  Quebec.)  In 
general  the  inhabitants  of  this  rugged  country  (Charlevoix,  Chicoutimi 
and  Tadousac  counties,  and  lake  St.  John  region)  a  simple,  hardy  pop 
ulation,  lumbering,  trapping  furs,  boating,  fishing,  berry-picking  and  a 
little  farming.  I  was  watching  a  group  of  young  boatmen  eating  their 
early  dinner  —  nothing  but  an  immense  loaf  of  bread,  had  apparently 
been  the  size  of  a  bushel  measure,  from  which  they  cut  chunks  with  a 
jack-knife.  Must  be  a  tremendous  winter  country  this,  when  the  solid 
frost  and  ice  fully  set  in. 

CEDAR-PLUMS  LIKE  One  time  I  thought  of  naming  this  collec- 

—  NAMES  tion  «  Cedar-Plums  Like"  (which  I  still 
(Back   again   in   Camden  and  fancy  wouldn't  have  been  a  bad  name,  nor 
down  in  Jersey)  inappropriate.)       A    melange    of  loafing, 

looking,    hobbling,    sitting,    traveling  —  a 

little  thinking  thrown  in  for  salt,  but  very  little  —  not  only  summer 
but  all  seasons  —  not  only  days  but  nights  —  some  literary  meditations 
—  books,  authors  examined,  Carlyle,  Poe,  Emerson  tried,  (always 
under  my  cedar-tree,  in  the  open  air,  and  never  in  the  library)  — 
mostly  the  scenes  everybody  sees,  but  some  of  my  own  caprices,  med 
itations,  egotism  —  truly  an  open  air  and  mainly  summer  formation  — 
singly,  or  in  clusters  —  wild  and  free  and  somewhat  acrid  —  indeed 
more  like  cedar-plums  than  you  might  guess  at  first  glance. 

But  do  you  know  what  they  are  ?  (To  city  man,  or  some  sweet 
parlor  lady,  I  now  talk.)  As  you  go  along  roads,  or  barrens,  or 
across  country,  anywhere  through  these  States,  middle,  eastern,  west- 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  159 

ern,  or  southern,  you  will  see,  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  the  thick 
woolly  tufts  of  the  cedar  mottled  with  bunches  of  china-blue  berries, 
about  as  big  as  fox-grapes.  But  first  a  special  word  for  the  tree  itself: 
everybody  knows  that  the  cedar  is  a  healthy,  cheap,  democratic  wood, 
streak' d  red  and  white  —  an  evergreen  —  that  it  is  not  a  cultivated 
tree  —  that  it  keeps  away  moths  —  that  it  grows  inland  or  seaboard, 
all  climates,  hot  or  cold,  any  soil  —  in  fact  rather  prefers  sand  and 
bleak  side  spots  —  content  if  the  plough,  the  fertilizer  and  the  trim 
ming-axe,  will  but  keep  away  and  let  it  alone.  After  a  long  rain, 
when  everything  looks  bright,  often  have  I  stopt  in  my  wood-saunters, 
south  or  north,  or  far  west,  to  take  in  its  dusky  green,  wash'd  clean 
and  sweet,  and  speck' d  copiously  with  its  fruit  of  clear,  hardy  blue. 
The  wood  of  the  cedar  is  of  use  —  but  what  profit  on  earth  are  those 
sprigs  of  acrid  plums  ?  A  question  impossible  to  answer  satisfactorily. 
True,  some  of  the  herb  doctors  give  them  for  stomachic  affections,  but 
the  remedy  is  as  bad  as  the  disease.  Then  in  my  rambles  down  in 
Camden  county  I  once  found  an  old  crazy  woman  gathering  the  clus 
ters  with  zeal  and  joy.  She  show'd,  as  I  was  told  afterward,  a  sort 
of  infatuation  for  them,  and  every  year  placed  and  kept  profuse  bunches 
high  and  low  about  her  room.  They  had  a  strange  charm  on  her 
uneasy  head,  and  effected  docility  and  peace.  (She  was  harmless,  and 
lived  near  by  with  her  well-off  married  daughter.)  Whether  there  is 
any  connection  between  those  bunches,  and  being  out  of  one's  wits,  I 
cannot  say,  but  I  myself  entertain  a  weakness  for  them.  Indeed,  I 
love  the  cedar,  anyhow  —  its  naked  ruggedness,  its  just  palpable  odor, 
(so  different  from  the  perfumer's  best,)  its  silence,  its  equable  accep 
tance  of  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat,  of  rain  or  drouth  —  its 
shelter  to  me  from  those,  at  times  —  its  associations  —  (well,  I  never 
could  explain  why  I  love  anybody,  or  anything.)  The  service  I  now 
specially  owe  to  the  cedar  is,  while  I  cast  around  for  a  name  for  my 
proposed  collection,  hesitating,  puzzled  —  after  rejecting  a  long,  long 
string,  I  lift  my  eyes,  and  lo  !  the  very  term  I  want.  At  any  rate,  I 
go  no  further  —  I  tire  in  the  search.  I  take  what  some  invisible  kind 
spirit  has  put  before  me.  Besides,  who  shall  say  there  is  not  affinity 
enough  between  (at  least  the  bundle  of  sticks  that  produced)  many  of 
these  pieces,  or  granulations,  and  those  blue  berries  ?  their  uselessness 
growing  wild  —  a  certain  aroma  of  Nature  I  would  so  like  to  have  in 
my  pages  —  the  thin  soil  whence  they  come  —  their  content  in  being 
let  alone  —  their  stolid  and  deaf  repugnance  to  answering  questions, 
(this  latter  the  nearest,  dearest  trait  affinity  of  all.) 

Then  reader  dear,  in  conclusion,  as  to  the  point  of  the  name  for  the 

present  collection,  let  us  be  satisfied  to  have  a  name  —  something  to 

identify  and  bind  it  together,   to  concrete  all  its  vegetable,    mineral, 

personal  memoranda,  abrupt  raids  of  criticism,   crude  gossip  of  phi- 

13 


160  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

losophy,  varied  sands  and  clumps  —  without  bothering  ourselves  because 
certain  pages  do  not  present  themselves  to  you  or  me  as  coming  under 
their  own  name  with  entire  fitness  or  amiability.  (It  is  a  profound, 
vexatious  never-explicable  matter  —  this  of  names.  I  have  been 
exercised  deeply  about  it  my  whole  life. *) 

After  all  of  which  the  name  "  Cedar- Plums  Like  "got  its  nose  put 
out  of  joint;  but  I  cannot  afford  to  throw  away  what  I  pencil!' d  down 
the  lane  there,  under  the  shelter  of  my  old  friend,  one  warm  October 
noon.  Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  civil  to  the  cedar  tree. 

DEATH  OF  Feb.  10,  '81.  — And  so  the  flame  of  the 

THOMAS  CARLYLE      lamp,    after  long  wasting  and    flickering, 

has  gone  out  entirely. 

As  a  representative  author,  a  literary  figure,  no  man  else  will  bequeath 
to  the  future  more  significant  hints  of  our  stormy  era,  its  fierce  para 
doxes,  its  din,  and  its  struggling  parturition  periods,  than  Carlyle.  He 
belongs  to  our  own  branch  of  the  stock  too  ;  neither  Latin  nor  Greek, 
but  altogether  Gothic.  Rugged,  mountainous,  volcanic,  he  was  himself 
more  a  French  revolution  than  any  of  his  volumes.  In  some  respects, 
so  far  in  the  Nineteenth  century,  the  best  equipt,  keenest  mind,  even 
from  the  college  point  of  view,  of  all  Britain ;  only  he  had  an  ailing 

*  In  the  pocket  of  my  receptacle-book  I  find  a  list  of  suggested  and  rejected  namea 
for  this  volume,  or  parts  of  it — such  as  the  following  : 

As  the  'wild  bee  hums  in  May, 
&  August  mulleins  grow, 
&  Winter  snow-flakes  fall, 
&  stars  in  the  sky  roll  round. 

Away  from  Books — away  from  Art, 

N oiv  for  the  Day  and  Night — the  lesson  done, 

N oiv  for  the  Sun  and  Stars. 

Notes  of  a  Half-Paralytic,  As  Voices  in  the  Dusk,  from  Speakers  far 

Week  in  and  Week  out,  or  hid, 

Embers  of  Ending  Days,  Autochthons. . . .  Embryons, 

Ducks  and  Drakes,  Wing-and-Wing, 

Flood  Tide  and  Ebb,  Notes  and  Recalles. 

Gossip  at  Early  Candle-light,  Only  Mulleins  and  Bumble-Bees, 

Echoes  and  Escapades,  Pond-Babble T2te-a-  TBtes, 

Such  as  I.....  Evening  Dews,  Echoes  of  a  Life  in  the  iqtb  Century  in  the 

Notes  after  Writing  a  Book,  New  World, 

Far  and  Near  at  63,  Flanges  of  Fifty  Tears, 

Drifts  and  Cumulus ,  Abandons Hurry  Notes, 

Maize-  Tassels Kindlings,  A  Life- Mosaic Native  Moments, 

Fore  and  Aft Vestibules,  Types  and  Semi-  Tones, 

Scintilla  at  60  and  after,  Oddments Sand-Drifts, 

Sands  on  the  Shores  of  64,  Again  and  Again. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  161 

body.  Dyspepsia  is  to  be  traced  in  every  page,  and  now  and  then  fills 
the  page.  One  may  include  among  the  lessons  of  his  life  —  even 
though  that  life  stretch' d  to  amazing  length  —  how  behind  the  tally  of 
genius  and  morals  stands  the  stomach,  and  gives  a  sort  of  casting  vote. 

Two  conflicting  agonistic  elements  seem  to  have  contended  in  the 
man,  sometimes  pulling  him  different  ways  like  wild  horses.  He  was 
a  cautious,  conservative  Scotchman,  fully  aware  what  a  fcetid  gas-bag 
i-.uich  of  modern  radicalism  is  ;  but  then  his  great  heart  demanded 
reform,  demanded  change — often  terribly  at  odds  with  his  scorn 
ful  brain.  No  author  ever  put  so  much  wailing  and  despair  into 
his  books,  sometimes  palpable,  oftener  latent.  He  reminds  me  of  that 
passage  in  Young's  poems  where  as  death  presses  closer  and  closer  for 
his  prey,  the  soul  rushes  hither  and  thither,  appealing,  shrieking,  berat 
ing,  to  escape  the  general  doom. 

Of  short-comings,  even  positive  blur-spots,  from  an  American  point 
of  view,  he  had  serious  share. 

Not  for  his  merely  literary  merit,  (though  that  was  great)  — not  as 
"maker  of  books,"  but  as  launching  into  the  self-complacent  atmos 
phere  of  our  days  a  rasping,  questioning,  dislocating  agitation  and 
shock,  is  Carlyle's  final  value.  It  is  time  the  English-speaking  peoples 
had  some  true  idea  about  the  verteber  of  genius,  namely  power.  As  if 
they  must  always  have  it  cut  and  bias'd  to  the  fashion,  like  a  lady's 
cloak!  What  a  needed  service  he  performs!  How  he  shakes  our 
comfortable  reading  circles  with  a  touch  of  the  old  Hebraic  anger  and 
prophecy  —  and  indeed  it  is  just  the  same.  Not  Isaiah  himself  more 
scornful,  more  threatening:  "The  crown  of  pride,  the  drunkards  of 
Ephraim,  shall  be  trodden  under  feet:  And  the  glorious  beauty  which 
is  on  the  head  of  the  fat  valley  shall  be  a  fading  flower."  (The  word 
prophecy  is  much  misused;  it  seems  narrow' d  to  prediction  merely. 
That  is  not  the  main  sense  of  the  Hebrew  word  translated  "prophet;" 
it  means  one  whose  mind  bubbles  up  and  pours  forth  as  a  fountain,  from 
inner,  divine  spontaneities  revealing  God.  Prediction  is  a  very  minor 
part  of  prophecy.  The  great  matter  is  to  reveal  and  outpour  the  God 
like  suggestions  pressing  for  birth  in  the  soul.  This  is  briefly  the  doc 
trine  of  the  Friends  or  Quakers.) 

Then  the  simplicity  and  amid  ostensible  frailty  the  towering  strength 
of  this  man  —  a  hardy  oak  knot,  you  could  never  wear  out  —  an  old 
farmer  dress' d  in  brown  clothes,  and  not  handsome  —  his  very  foibles 
fascinating.  Who  cares  that  he  wrote  about  Dr.  Francia,  and 
"  Shooting  Niagara  "  —  and  "  the  Nigger  Question,"  —and  didn't 
at  all  admire  our  United  States  ?  (I  doubt  if  he  ever  thought  or  said 
half  as  bad  words  about  us  as  we  deserve. )  How  he  splashes  like 
leviathan  in  the  seas  of  modern  literature  and  politics  !  Doubtless, 
respecting  the  latter,  one  needs  first  to  realize,  from  actual  observation, 


162  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  squalor,  vice  and  doggedness  ingrain' d  in  the  bulk-population  of 
the  British  islands,  with  the  red  tape,  the  fatuity,  the  flunkeyism  every 
where,  to  understand  the  last  meaning  in  his  pages.  Accordingly, 
though  he  was  no  chartist  or  radical,  I  consider  Carlyle's  by  far  the 
most  indignant  comment  or  protest  anent  the  fruits  of  feudalism  to-day 
in  Great  Britain  —  the  increasing  poverty  and  degradation  of  the 
homeless,  landless  twenty  millions,  while  a  few  thousands,  or  rather 
a  few  hundreds,  possess  the  entire  soil,  the  money,  and  the  fat  berths. 
Trade  and  shipping,  and  clubs  and  culture,  and  prestige,  and  guns, 
and  a  fine  select  class  of  gentry  and  aristocracy,  with  every  modern 
improvement,  cannot  begin  to  salve  or  defend  such  stupendous  hog- 
gishness. 

The  way  to  test  how  much  he  has  left  his  country  were  to  consider, 
or  try  to  consider,  for  a  moment,  the  array  of  British  thought,  the 
resultant  ensemble  of  the  last  fifty  years,  as  existing  to-day,  but  with 
Carlyle  left  out.  It  would  be  like  an  army  with  no  artillery.  The 
show  were  still  a  gay  and  rich  one  —  Byron,  Scott,  Tennyson,  and 
many  more  —  horsemen  and  rapid  infantry,  and  banners  flying  —  but 
the  last  heavy  roar  so  dear  to  the  ear  of  the  train*  d  soldier,  and  that 
settles  fate  and  victory,  would  be  lacking. 

For  the  last  three  years  we  in  America  have  had  transmitted  glimpses 
of  a  thin-bodied,  lonesome,  wifeless,  childless,  very  old  man,  lying 
on  a  sofa,  kept  out  of  bed  by  indomitable  will,  but,  of  late,  never  well 
enough  to  take  the  open  air.  I  have  noted  this  news  from  time  to 
time  in  brief  descriptions  in  the  papers.  A  week  ago  I  read  such  an 
item  just  before  I  staffed  out  for  my  customary  evening  stroll  between 
eight  and  nine.  In  the  fine  cold  night,  unusually  clear,  (Feb.  5,  '81,) 
as  I  walk'd  some  open  grounds  adjacent,  the  condition  of  Carlyle,  and 
his  approaching  —  perhaps  even  then  actual  —  death,  filled  me  with 
thoughts  eluding  statement,  and  curiously  blending  with  the  scene. 
The  planet  Venus,  an  hour  high  in  the  west,  with  all  her  volume  and 
lustre  recover' d,  (she  has  been  shorn  and  languid  for  nearly  a  year,) 
including  an  additional  sentiment  I  never  noticed  before  —  not  merely 
voluptuous,  Paphian,  steeping,  fascinating  —  now  with  calm  command 
ing  seriousness  and  hauteur  —  the  Milo  Venus  now.  Upward  to  the 
zenith,  Jupiter,  Saturn,  and  the  moon  past  her  quarter,  trailing  in  pro 
cession,  with  the  Pleiades  following,  and  the  constellation  Taurus,  and 
red  Aldebaran.  Not  a  cloud  in  heaven.  Orion  strode  through  the 
southeast,  with  his  glittering  belt  —  and  a  trifle  below  hung  the  sun  of 
the  night,  Sirius.  Every  star  dilated,  more  vitreous,  nearer  than  usual. 
Not  as  in  some  clear  nights  when  the  larger  stars  entirely  outshine  the 
rest.  Every  little  star  or  cluster  just  as  distinctly  visible,  and  just  as 
nigh.  Berenice's  hair  showing  every  gem,  and  new  ones.  To  the 
northeast  and  north  the  Sickle,  the  Goat  and  kids,  Cassiopeia,  Castor 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  163 

and  Pollux,  and  the  two  Dippers.  While  through  the  whole  of  this 
silent  indescribable  show,  inclosing  and  bathing  my  whole  receptivity, 
ran  the  thought  of  Carlyle  dying.  (To  soothe  and  spiritualize,  and, 
as  far  as  may  be,  solve  the  mysteries  of  death  and  genius,  consider 
them  under  the  stars  at  midnight. ) 

And  now  that  he  has  gone  hence,  can  it  be  that  Thomas  Carlyle, 
soon  to  chemically  dissolve  in  ashes  and  by  winds,  remains  an  identity 
still?  In  ways  perhaps  eluding  all  the  statements,  lore  and  specula 
tions  often  thousand  years  —  eluding  all  possible  statements  to  mortal 
sense  — does  he  yet  exist,  a  definite,  vital  being,  a  spirit,  an  individual 
—  perhaps  now  wafted  in  space  among  those  stellar  systems,  which, 
suggestive  and  limitless  as  they  are,  merely  edge  more  limitless,  far 
more  suggestive  systems?  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  In  silence,  of  a 
fine  night,  such  questions  are  answer' d  to  the  soul,  the  best  answers 
that  can  be  given.  With  me,  too,  when  depress' d  by  some  specially 
sad  event,  or  tearing  problem,  I  wait  till  I  go  out  under  the  stars  for 
the  last  voiceless  satisfaction. 

CARLYLE  FROM  There  is  surely  at  present  an  inexplicable 

AMERICAN  POINTS  rapport  (all  the  more  piquant  from  its 
OF  VIEW  contradictoriness)  between  that  deceas'd 

Later  Thoughts  and  Jottings          author  and  our  United  States  of  America 

no  matter    whether    it    lasts    or   not.* 

As  we  Westerners  assume  definite  shape,  and  result  in  formations  and 
fruitage  unknown  before,  it  is  curious  with  what  a  new  sense  our  eyes 
turn  to  representative  outgrowths  of  crises  and  personages  in  the  Old 
World.  Beyond  question,  since  Carlyle' s  death,  and  the  publication 
of  Froude's  memoirs,  not  only  the  interest  in  his  books,  but^  every 
personal  bit  regarding  the  famous  Scotchman  —  his  dyspepsia,  his 
buffetings,  his  parentage,  his  paragon  of  a  wife,  his  career  in  Edin 
burgh,  in  the  lonesome  nest  on  Craigenputtock  moor,  and  then  so 
many  years  in  London  —  is  probably  wider  and  livelier  to-day  in  this 

*It  will  be  difficult  for  the  future— judging  by  his  books,  personal  dis- 
symnathies,  &c., —  to  account  for  the  deep  hold  this  author  has  taken  on 
the  present  age,  and  the  way  he  has  color' d  its  method  and  thought. 
am  certainly  at  a  loss  to  account  for  it  all  as  affecting  myself.  But  there 
could  be  no  view,  or  even  partial  picture,  of  the  middle  and  latter  part  of 
our  Nineteenth  century,  that  did  not  markedly  include  Thomas  Carlyle. 
In  his  case  (as  so  many  others,  literary  productions,  works  of  art,  personal 
identities,  events,)  there  has  been  an  impalpable  something  more  effective 
than  the  palpable.  Then  I  find  no  better  text,  (it  is  always  important  to 
have  a  definite,  special,  even  oppositional,  living  man  to  start  from,)  for 
sending  out  certain  speculations  and  comparisons  for  home  use.  Let  us  see 
what  they  amount  to  —  those  reactionary  doctrines,  fears,  scornful  analyses 
of  democracy even  from  the  most  erudite  and  sincere  mind  of  Europe. 


1 64  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

country  than  in  his  own  land.  Whether  I  succeed  or  no,  I,  too, 
reaching  across  the  Atlantic  and  taking  the  man's  dark  fortune-telling 
of  humanity  and  politics,  would  offset  it  all,  (such  is  the  fancy  that 
comes  to  me,)  by  a  far  more  profound  horoscope-casting  of  those 
themes— G.  F.  Hegel's.* 

First,  about  a  chance,  a  never-fulfilP  d  vacuity  of  this  pale  cast  of 
thought  —  this  British  Hamlet  from  Cheyne  row,  more  puzzling  than 
the  Danish  one,  with  his  contrivances  for  settling  the  broken  and 
spavin' d  joints  of  the  world's  government,  especially  its  democratic  dis 
location.  Carlyle's  grim  fate  was  cast  to  live  and  dwell  in,  and  largely 
embody,  the  parturition  agony  and  qualms  of  the  old  order,  amid 
crowded  accumulations  of  ghastly  morbidity,  giving  birth  to  the  new. 
But  conceive  of  him  (or  his  parents  before  him)  coming  to  America, 
recuperated  by  the  cheering  realities  and  activity  of  our  people  and 
country — growing  up  and  delving  face-to-face  resolutely  among  us 
here,  especially  at  the  West  —  inhaling  and  exhaling  our  limitless  air 
and  eligibilities  —  devoting  his  mind  to  the  theories  and  developments 
of  this  Republic  amid  its  practical  facts  as  exemplified  in  Kansas,  Mis 
souri,  Illinois,  Tennessee,  or  Louisiana.  I  say  facts,  and  face-to-face 
confrontings  —  so  different  from  books,  and  all  those  quiddities  and 
mere  reports  in  the  libraries,  upon  which  the  man  (it  was  wittily  said 
of  him  at  the  age  of  thirty,  that  there  was  no  one  in  Scotland  who  had 
glean' d  so  much  and  seen  so  little,)  almost  wholly  fed,  and  which  even 
his  sturdy  and  vital  mmd  but  reflected  at  best. 

Something  of  the  sort  narrowly  escaped  happening.  In  1835,  after 
more  than  a  dozen  years  of  trial  and  non-success,  the  author  of  "Sartor 
Resartus  "  removing  to  London,  very  poor,  a  confirmed  hypochondriac, 
"Sartor"  universally  scoffed  at,  no  literary  prospects  ahead,  deliber 
ately  settled  on  one  last  casting  throw  of  the  literary  dice — resolv'd  to 
compose  and  launch  forth  a  book  on  the  subject  of  the  French  Revolu 
tion  —  and  if  that  won  no  higher  guerdon  or  prize  than  hitherto,  to 
sternly  abandon  the  trade  of  author  forever,  and  emigrate  for  good  to 
America.  But  the  venture  turn'd  out  a  lucky  one,  and  there  was  no 
emigration. 

Carlyle's  work  in  the  sphere  of  literature  as  he  commenced  and  car 
ried  it  out,  is  the  same  in  one  or  two  leading  respects  that  Immanuel 

*  Not  the  least  mentionable  part  of  the  case,  (a  streak,  it  may  be,  of  that 
humor  with  which  history  and  fate  love  to  contrast  their  gravity,)  is  that 
although  neither  of  my  great  authorities  during  their  lives  consider' d  the 
United  States  worthy  of  serious  mention,  all  the  principal  works  of  both 
might  not  inappropriately  be  this  day  collected  and  bound  up  under  the 
conspicuous  title:  Speculations  for  the  use  of  North  America,  and  Democracy  there 
with  the  relations  of  the  same  to  Metaphysics,  including  Lessons  and  ffarnings  (encourage 
ments  too,  and  of  the  vastest,)  from  the  Old  World  to  the  Neiu. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  165 

Kant's  was  in  speculative  philosophy.  But  the  Scotchman  had  none  of 
the  stomachic  phlegm  and  never-perturb'd  placidity  of  the  Konigsberg 
sage,  and  did  not,  like  the  latter,  understand  his  own  limits,  and  stop 
when  he  got  to  the  end  of  them.  He  clears  away  jungle  and  poison- 
vines  and  underbrush  —  at  any  rate  hacks  valiantly  at  them,  smiting 
hip  and  thigh.  Kant  did  the  like  in  his  sphere,  and  it  was  all  he  pro 
fess' d  to  do;  his  labors  have  left  the  ground  fully  prepared  ever  since  - 
and  greater  service  was  probably  never  perform' d  by  ^mortal  man. 
But  the  pang  and  hiatus  of  Carlyle  seem  to  me  to  consist  in  the  evi 
dence  everywhere  that  amid  a  whirl  of  fog  and  fury  and  cross-purposes, 
he  firmly  believ'd  he  had  a  clue  to  the  medication  of  the  world's  ills, 
and  that  his  bounden  mission  was  to  exploit  it.* 

There  were  two  anchors,  or  sheet-anchors,  for  steadying,  as  a  last 
resort,  the  Carlylean  ship.  One  will  be  specified  presently.  The 
other,  perhaps  the  main,  was  only  to  be  found  in  some  mark'd  form 
of  personal  force,  an  extreme  degree  of  competent  urge  and  will,  a 
man  or  men  "born  to  command."  Probably  there  ran  through 
every  vein  and  current  of  the  Scotchman's  blood  something  that  warm'd 
up  to  this  kind  of  trait  and  character  above  aught  else  in  the  world,  and 
which  makes  him  in  my  opinion  the  chief  celebrater  and  promulger  of 

it  in  literature more  than  Plutarch,  more  than  Shakspere.    The  great 

masses  of  humanity  stand  for  nothing  —  at  least  nothing  but  nebulous 
raw  material ;  only  the  big  planets  and  shining  suns  for  him.  To  ideas 
almost  invariably  languid  or  cold,  a  number-one  forceful  personality 
was  sure  to  rouse  his  eulogistic  passion  and  savage  joy.  In  such  case, 
even  the  standard  of  duty  hereinafter  rais'd,  was  to  be  instantly  low 
er' d  and  vail'd.  All  that  is  comprehended  under  the  terms  republi 
canism  and  democracy  were  distasteful  to  him  from  the  first,  and  as  he 
grew  older  they  became  hateful  and  contemptible.  For  an  undoubtedly 
candid  and  penetrating  faculty  such  as  his,  the  bearings  he  persistently 
ignored  were  marvellous.  For  instance,  the  promise,  nay  certainty  of 
the  democratic  principle,  to  each  and  every  State  of  the  current  world, 
not  so  much  of  helping  it  to  perfect  legislators  and  executives,  but  as 
the  only  effectual  method  for  surely,  however  slowly,  training  people 
on  a  large  scale  toward  voluntarily  ruling  and  managing  themselves 
(the  ultimate  aim  of  political  and  all  other  development)  —  to  gradu 
ally  reduce  the  fact  of  governing  to  its  minimum,  and  to  subject  all  its 

*  I  hope  I  shall  not  myself  fall  into  the  error  I  charge  upon  him,  of 
prescribing  a  specific  for  indispensable  evils.  My  utmost  pretension  is 
probably  but  to  offset  that  old  claim  of  the  exclusively  curative  power  of 
first-class  individual  men,  as  leaders  and  rulers,  by  the  claims,  and  general 
movement  and  result,  of  ideas.  Something  of  the  latter  kind  seems  to  me 
the  distinctive  theory  of  America,  of  democracy,  and  of  the  modern  —  or 
rather,  I  should  say,  it  is  democracy,  and  is  the  modern. 


166  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

staffs  and  their  doings  to  the  telescopes  and  microscopes  of  committees 
and  parties  —  and  greatest  of  all,  to  afford  (not  stagnation  and  obedient 
content,  which  went  well  enough  with  the  feudalism  and  ecclesiasticism 
of  the  antique  and  medieval  world,  but)  a  vast  and  sane  and  recurrent 
ebb  and  tide  action  for  those  floods  of  the  great  deep  that  have  hence 
forth  palpably  burst  forever  their  old  bounds  —  seem  never  to  have 
enter' d  Carlyle's  thought.  It  was  splendid  how  he  refus'd  any  com 
promise  to  the  last.  He  was  curiously  antique.  In  that  harsh,  pic 
turesque,  most  potent  voice  and  figure,  one  seems  to  be  carried  back 
from  the  present  of  the  British  islands  more  than  two  thousand  years, 
to  the  range  between  Jerusalem  and  Tarsus.  His  fullest  best  biog 
rapher  justly  says  of  him  : 

He  was  a  teacher  and  a  prophet,  in  the  Jewish  sense  of  the  word. 
The  prophecies  of  Isaiah  and  Jeremiah  have  become  a  part  of  the  perma 
nent  spiritual  inheritance  of  mankind,  because  events  proved  that  they  had 
interpreted  correctly  the  sign  of  their  own  times,  and  their  prophecies  were 
fulfill' d.  Carlyle,  like  them,  believ'd  that  he  had  a  special  message  to 
deliver  to  the  present  age.  Whether  he  was  correct  in  that  belief,  and 
whether  his  message  was  a  true  message,  remains  to  be  seen.  He  has  told 
us  that  our  most  cherish' d  ideas  of  political  liberty,  with  their  kindred 
corollaries,  are  mere  illusions,  and  that  the  progress  which  has  seem'd  to 
go  along  with  them  is  a  progress  towards  anarchy  and  social  dissolution. 
If  he  was  wrong,  he  has  misused  his  powers.  The  principles  of  his  teach 
ings  are  false.  He  has  offer'  d  himself  as  a  guide  upon  a  road  of  which  he 
had  no  knowledge  ;  and  his  own  desire  for  himself  would  be  the  speediest 
oblivion  both  of  his  person  and  his  works.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has 
been  right  $  if,  like  his  great  predecessors,  he  has  read  truly  the  tendencies 
of  this  modern  age  of  ours,  and  his  teaching  is  authenticated  by  facts,  then 
Carlyle,  too,  will  take  his  place  among  the  inspired  seers. 

To  which  I  add  an  amendment  that  under  no  circumstances,  and  no 
matter  how  completely  time  and  events  disprove  his  lurid  vaticinations, 
should  the  English-speaking  world  forget  this  man,  nor  fail  to  hold  in 
honor  his  unsurpassed  conscience,  his  unique  method,  and  his  honest 
fame.  Never  were  convictions  more  earnest  and  genuine.  Never 
was  there  less  of  a  flunkey  or  temporizer.  Never  had  political  pro- 
gressivism  a  foe  it  could  more  heartily  respect. 

The  second  main  point  of  Carlyle's  utterance  was  the  idea  of  duty 
being  done.  (It  is  simply  a  new  codicil  —  if  it  be  particularly  new, 
which  is  by  no  means  certain  — on  the  time-honor' d  bequest  of  dynas- 
ticism,  the  mould-eaten  rules  of  legitimacy  and  kings.)  He  seems  to 
have  been  impatient  sometimes  to  madness  when  reminded  by  persons 
who  thought  at  least  as  deeply  as  himself,  that  this  formula,  though 
precious,  is  rather  a  vague  one,  and  that  there  are  many  other  consid 
erations  to  a  philosophical  estimate  of  each  and  every  department  either 
in  general  history  or  individual  affairs, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  167 

Altogether,  I  don't  know  anything  more  amazing  than  these  per 
sistent  strides  and  throbbings  so  far  through  our  Nineteenth  century  of 
perhaps  its  biggest,  sharpest,  and  most  erudite  brain,  in  defiance  and 
discontent  with  everything ;  contemptuously  ignoring,  (either  from 
constitutional  inaptitude,  ignorance  itself,  or  more  likely  because  he 
demanded  a  definite  cure-all  here  and  now,)  the  only  solace  and  solvent 
to  be  had. 

There  is,  apart  from  mere  intellect,  in  the  make-up  of  every  superior 
human  identity,  (in  its  moral  completeness,  considered  as  ensemble,  not 
for  that  moral  alone,  but  for  the  whole  being,  including  physique,)  a 
wondrous  something  that  realizes  without  argument,  frequently  without 
what  is  called  education,  (though  I  think  it  the  goal  and  apex  of  all 
education  deserving  the  name)  —  an  intuition  of  the  absolute  balance, 
in  time  and  space,  of  the  whole  of  this  multifarious,  mad  chaos  of  fraud, 
frivolity,  hoggishness  —  this  revel  of  fools,  and  incredible  make-believe 
and  general  unsettledness,  we  call  the  world;  a  soul-sight  of  that  divine 
clue  and  unseen  thread  which  holds  the  whole  congeries  of  things,  all 
history  and  time,  and  all  events,  however  trivial,  however  momentous, 
like  a  leash' d  dog  in  the  hand  of  the  hunter.  Such  soul-sight  and  root- 
centre  for  the  mind  —  mere  optimism  explains  only  the  surface  or  fringe 
of  it  —  Carlyle  was  mostly,  perhaps  entirely  without.  He  seems  in 
stead  to  have  been  haunted  in  the  play  of  his  mental  action  by  a  spectre, 
never  entirely  laid  from  first  to  last,  (Greek  scholars,  I  believe,  find 
the  same  mocking  and  fantastic  apparition  attending  Aristophanes,  his 
comedies,)  —  the  spectre  of  world-destruction. 

How  largest  triumph  or  failure  in  human  life,  in  war  or  peace, 
may  depend  on  some  little  hidden  centrality,  hardly  more  than  a  drop 
of  blood,  a  pulse-beat,  or  a  breath  of  air!  It  is  certain  that  all  these 
weighty  matters,  democracy  in  America,  Carlyleism,  and  the  tempera 
ment  for  deepest  political  or  literary  exploration,  turn  on  a  simple 
point  in  speculative  philosophy. 

The  most  profound  theme  that  can  occupy  the  mind  of  man  —  the 
problem  on  whose  solution  science,  art,  the  bases  and  pursuits  of 
nations,  and  everything  else,  including  intelligent  human  happiness, 
(here  to-day,  1882,  New  York,  Texas,  California,  the  same  as  all 
times,  all  lands,)  subtly  and  finally  resting,  depends  for  competent  out 
set  and  argument,  is  doubtless  involved  in  the  query:  What  is  the 
fusing  explanation  and  tie  —  what  the  relation  between  the  (radical, 
democratic)  Me,  the  human  identity  of  understanding,  emotions,  spirit, 
&c.,  on  the  one  side,  of  and  with  the  (conservative)  Not  Me,  the 
whole  of  the  material  objective  universe  and  laws,  with  what  is  behind 
them  in  time  and  space,  on  the  other  side  ?  Immanuel  Kant,  though 
he  explain'd  or  partially  explain'd,  as  may  be  said,  the  laws  of  the 
human  understanding,  left  this  question  an  open  one.  Schelling's 


168  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

answer,  or  suggestion  of  answer,  is  (and  very  valuable  and  important, 
as  far  as  it  goes,)  that  the  same  general  and  particular  intelligence, 
passion,  even  the  standards  of  right  and  wrong,  which  exist  in  a  con 
scious  and  formulated  state  in  man,  exist  in  an  unconscious  state,  or  in 
perceptible  analogies,  throughout  the  entire  universe  of  external  Nature, 
in  all  its  objects  large  or  small,  and  all  its  movements  and  processes  — 
thus  making  the  impalpable  human  mind,  and  concrete  nature,  notwith 
standing  their  duality  and  separation,  convertible,  and  in  centrality  and 
essence  one.  But  G.  F.  Hegel's  fuller  statement  of  the  matter 
probably  remains  the  last  best  word  that  has  been  said  upon  it,  up  to 
date.  Substantially  adopting  the  scheme  just  epitomized,  he  so  carries 
it  out  and  fortifies  it  and  merges  everything  in  it,  with  certain  serious 
gaps  now  for  the  first  time  filPd,  that  it  becomes  a  coherent  metaphysi 
cal  system,  and  substantial  answer  (as  far  as  there  can  be  any  answer) 
to  the  foregoing  question  —  a  system  which,  while  I  distinctly  admit 
that  the  brain  of  the  future  may  add  to,  revise,  and  even  entirely  recon 
struct,  at  any  rate  beams  forth  to-day,  in  its  entirety,  illuminating  the 
thought  of  the  universe,  and  satisfying  the  mystery  thereof  to  the  human 
mind,  with  a  more  consoling  scientific  assurance  than  any  yet. 

According  to  Hegel  the  whole  earth,  (an  old  nucleus-thought,  as  in 
the  Vedas,  and  no  doubt  before,  but  never  hitherto  brought  so  abso 
lutely  to  the  front,  fully  surcharged  with  modern  scientism  and  facts, 
and  made  the  sole  entrance  to  each  and  all,)  with  its  infinite  variety, 
the  past,  the  surroundings  of  to-day,  or  what  may  happen  in  the  future, 
the  contrarieties  of  material  with  spiritual,  and  of  natural  with  artificial, 
are  all,  to  the  eye  of  the  ensemblist,  but  necessary  sides  and  unfoldings, 
different  steps  or  links,  in  the  endless  process  of  Creative  thought, 
which,  amid  numberless  apparent  failures  and  contradictions,  is  held 
together  by  central  and  never-broken  unity  —  not  contradictions  or 
failures  at  all,  but  radiations  of  one  consistent  and  eternal  purpose ; 
the  whole  mass  of  everything  steadily,  unerringly  tending  and  flowing 
toward  the  permanent  tittle  and  morale,  as  rivers  to  oceans.  As  life  is 
the  whole  law  and  incessant  effort  of  the  visible  universe,  and  death 
only  the  other  or  invisible  side  of  the  same,  so  the  utile,  so  truth,  so 
health  are  the  continuous-immutable  laws  of  the  moral  universe,  and 
vice  and  disease,  with  all  their  perturbations,  are  but  transient,  even  if 
ever  so  prevalent  expressions. 

To  politics  throughout,  Hegel  applies  the  like  catholic  standard  and 
faith.  Not  any  one  party,  or  any  one  form  of  government,  is 
absolutely  and  exclusively  true.  Truth  consists  in  the  just  relations  of 
objects  to  each  other.  A  majority  or  democracy  may  rule  as  outra 
geously  and  do  as  great  harm  as  an  oligarchy  or  despotism — though 
far  less  likely  to  do  so.  But  the  great  evil  is  either  a  violation  of  the 
relations  just  referr'd  to,  or  of  the  moral  law.  The  specious,  the  un- 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  169 

just,  the  cruel,  and  what  is  called  the  unnatural,  though  not  only 
permitted  but  in  a  certain  sense,  (like  shade  to  light,)  inevitable  in 
the  divine  scheme,  are  by  the  whole  constitution  of  that  scheme,  partial, 
inconsistent,  temporary,  and  though  having  ever  so  great  an  ostensible 
majority,  are  certainly  destin'd  to  failures,  after  causing  great  suffering. 

Theology,  Hegel  translates  into  science. *  All  apparent  contradic 
tions  in  the  statement  of  the  Deific  nature  by  different  ages,  nations, 
churches,  points  of  view,  are  but  fractional  and  imperfect  expressions  of 
one  essential  unity,  from  which  they  all  proceed  —  crude  endeavors  or 
distorted  parts,  to  be  regarded  both  as  distinct  and  united.  In  short  (to 
put  it  in  our  own  form,  or  summing  up,)  that  thinker  or  analyzer  or 
overlooker  who  by  an  inscrutable  combination  of  train' d  wisdom  and 
natural  intuition  most  fully  accepts  in  perfect  faith  the  moral  unity  and 
sanity  of  the  creative  scheme,  in  history,  science,  and  all  life  and  time, 
present  and  future,  is  both  the  truest  cosmical  devotee  or  religioso,  and 
the  profoundest  philosopher.  While  he  who,  by  the  spell  of  himself 
and  his  circumstance,  sees  darkness  and  despair  in  the  sum  of  the-  work 
ings  of  God's  providence,  and  who,  in  that,  denies  or  prevaricates,  is, 
no  matter  how  much  piety  plays  on  his  lips,  the  most  radical  sinner  and 
infidel. 

I  am  the  more  assured  in  recounting  Hegel  a  little  freely  here,f  not 
only  for  offsetting  the  Carlylean  letter  and  spirit — cutting  it  out  all  and 
several  from  the  very  roots,  and  below  the  roots  —  but  to  counterpoise, 
since  the  late  death  and  deserv'd  apotheosis  of  Darwin,  the  tenets  of  the 
evolutionists.  Unspeakably  precious  as  those  are  to  biology,  and 
henceforth  indispensable  to  a  right  aim  and  estimate  in  study,  they 
neither  comprise  or  explain  everything  —  and  the  last  word  or  whisper 
still  remains  to  be  breathed,  after  the  utmost  of  those  claims,  floating 
high  and  forever  above  them  all,  and  above  technical  metaphysics. 
While  the  contributions  which  German  Kant  and  Fichte  and  Schelling 
and  Hegel  have  bequeath' d  to  humanity  —  and  which  English  Darwin 
has  also  in  his  field  —  are  indispensable  to  the  erudition  of  America's 
future,  I  should  say  that  in  all  of  them,  and  the  best  of  them,  when 

*  I  am  much  indebted  to  J.  Gostick's  abstract. 

f  I  have  deliberately  repeated  it  all,  not  only  in  offset  to  Carlyle's  ever- 
lurking  pessimism  and  world-decadence,  but  as  presenting  the  most  thor 
oughly  American  points  of  view  I  know.  In  my  opinion  the  above  formulas 
of  Hegel  are  an  essential  and  crowning  justification  of  New  World  democ 
racy  in  the  creative  realms  of  time  and  space.  There  is  that  about  them 
which  only  the  vastness,  the  multiplicity  and  the  vitality  of  America  would 
seem  able  to  comprehend,  to  give  scope  and  illustration  to,  or  to  be  fit  for, 
or  even  originate.  It  is  strange  to  me  that  they  were  born  in  Germany,  or 
in  the  old  world  at  all.  While  a  Carlyle,  I  should  say,  is  quite  the  legiti 
mate  European  product  to  be  expected. 


i yo  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

compared  with  the  lightning  flashes  and  flights  of  the  old  prophets  and 
exaltes,  the  spiritual  poets  and  poetry  of  all  lands,  (as  in  the  Hebrew 
Bible, )  there  seems  to  be,  nay  certainly  is,  something  lacking  —  some 
thing  cold,  a  failure  to  satisfy  the  deepest  emotions  of  the  soul  —  a 
want  of  living  glow,  fondness,  warmth,  which  the  old  exaltes  and 
poets  supply,  and  which  the  keenest  modern  philosophers  so  far  do 
not. 

Upon  the  whole,  and  for  our  purposes,  this  man's  name  certainly 
belongs  on  the  list  with  the  just-specified,  first-class  moral  physicians  of 
our  current  era — and  with  Emerson  and  two  or  three  others — though 
his  prescription  is  drastic,  and  perhaps  destructive,  while  theirs  is  assim 
ilating,  normal  and  tonic.  Feudal  at  the  core,  and  mental  offspring 
and  radiation  of  feudalism  as  are  his  books,  they  afford  ever-valuable 
lessons  and  affinities  to  democratic  America.  Nations  or  individuals, 
we  surely  learn  deepest  from  unlikeness,  from  a  sincere  opponent,  from 
the  light  thrown  even  scornfully  on  dangerous  spots  and  liabilities. 
(Michel  Angelo  invoked  heaven's  special  protection  against  his  friends 
and  affectionate  flatterers;  palpable  foes  he  could  manage  for  himself.) 
In  many  particulars  Carlyle  was  indeed,  as  Froude  terms  him,  one  of 
those  far-off  Hebraic  utterers,  a  new  Micah  or  Habbakuk.  His  words 
at  times  bubble  forth  with  abysmic  inspiration.  Always  precious,  such 
men;  as  precious  now  as  any  time.  His  rude,  rasping,  taunting,  con 
tradictory  tones — what  ones  are  more  wanted  amid  the  supple,  polish' d, 
money  -  worshipping,  Jesus  -  and  -Judas  -  equalizing,  suffrage  -  sovereignty 
echoes  of  current  America  ?  He  has  lit  up  our  Nineteenth  cen 
tury  with  the  light  of  a  powerful,  penetrating,  and  perfectly  honest 
intellect  of  the  first  class,  turn'd  on  British  and  European  politics,  social 
life,  literature,  and  representative  personages  —  thoroughly  dissatisfied 
with  all,  and  mercilessly  exposing  the  illness  of  all.  But  while  he 
announces  the  malady,  and  scolds  and  raves  about  it,  he  himself,  born 
and  bred  in  the  same  atmosphere,  is  a  mark'd  illustration  of  it. 

A  COUPLE  OF  OLD     Latter  April.—  Have    run  down  in  my 

FRIENDS  —  A    COL—      country  haunt  for  a  couple  of  days,  and 

ERIDGE    BIT  am  spending  them  by  the  pond.      I   had 

already  discover 'd  my  kingfisher  here  (but 

only  one  —  the  mate  not  here  yet. )  This  fine  bright  morning,  down 
by  the  creek,  he  has  come  out  for  a  spree,  circling,  flirting,  chirping 
at  a  round  rate.  While  I  am  writing  these  lines  he  is  disporting  him 
self  in  scoots  and  rings  over  the  wider  parts  of  the  pond,  into  whose 
surface  he  dashes,  once  or  twice  making  a  loud  souse — the  spray  flying 
in  the  sun  —  beautiful !  I  see  his  white  and  dark-gray  plumage  and 
peculiar  shape  plainly,  as  he  has  deign' d  to  come  very  near  me.  The 
noble,  graceful  bird  !  Now  he  is  sitting  on  the  limb  of  an  old  tree, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  171 

high  up,  bending  over  the  water  —  seems  to  be  looking  at  me  while  I 
memorandize.  I  almost  fancy  he  knows  me.  Three  days  later. — 
My  second  kingfisher  is  here  with  his  (or  her)  mate.  I  saw  the  two 
together  flying  and  whirling  around.  I  had  heard,  in  the  distance, 
what  I  thought  was  the  clear  rasping  staccato  of  the  birds  several  times 

already but  I  couldn't  be  sure  the  notes  came  from  both  until  I  saw 

them  together.  To-day  at  noon  they  appear' d,  but  apparently  either 
on  business,  or  for  a  little  limited  exercise  only.  No  wild  frolic  now, 
full  of  free  fun  and  motion,  up  and  down  for  an  hour.  Doubtless, 
now  they  have  cares,  duties,  incubation  responsibilities.  The  frolics 
are  deferr'd  till  summer-close. 

I  don't  know  as  I  can  finish  to-day's  memorandum  better  than  with 
Coleridge's  lines,  curiously  appropriate  in  more  ways  than  one: 

All  Nature  seems  at  work  —  slugs  leave  their  lair, 
The  bees  are  stirring  —  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
And  winter,  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  spring  j 
And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

A    WEEK'S  VISIT  May  I,   '81.  —Seems  as  if  all  the  ways 

TO   BOSTON  and  means  of  American   travel  to-day  had 

been    settled,  not   only  with    reference  to 

speed  and  directness,  but  for  the  comfort  of  women,  children,  invalids, 
and  old  fellows  like  me.  I  went  on  by  a  through  train  that  runs  daily 
from  Washington  to  the  Yankee  metropolis  without  change.  You  get 
in  a  sleeping-car  soon  after  dark  in  Philadelphia,  and  after  ruminating 
an  hour  or  two,  have  your  bed  made  up  if  you  like,  draw  the  curtains, 
and  go  to  sleep  in  it — fly  on  through  Jersey  to  New  York  —  hear  in 
your  half-slumbers  a  dull  jolting  and  bumping  sound  or  two  —  are  un 
consciously  toted  from  Jersey  City  by  a  midnight  steamer  around  the 
Battery  and  under  the  big  bridge  to  the  track  of  the  New  Haven  road 
—  resume  your  flight  eastward,  and  early  the  next  morning  you  wake 
up  in  Boston.  All  of  which  was  my  experience.  I  wanted  to  go  to 
the  Revere  house.  A  tall  unknown  gentleman,  (a  fellow-passenger  on 
his  way  to  Newport  he  told  me,  I  had  just  chatted  a  few  moments 
before  with  him,)  assisted  me  out  through  the  depot  crowd,  procured 
a  hack,  put  me  in  it  with  my  traveling  bag,  saying  smilingly  and 
quietly,  "Now  I  want  you  to  let  this  be  my  ride,"  paid  the  driver, 
and  before  I  could  remonstrate  bow'd  himself  off. 

The  occasion  of  my  jaunt,  I  suppose  I  had  better  say  here,  was  for 
a  public  reading  of  "  the  death  of  Abraham  Lincoln"  essay,  on  the 
sixteenth  anniversary  of  that  tragedy;  which  reading  duly  came  off, 
night  of  April  15.  Then  I  linger' d  a  week  in  Boston  —  felt  pretty 


i7a  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

well  (the  mood  propitious,  my  paralysis  lulPd)  — went  around  every 
where,  and  saw  all  that  was  to  be  seen,  especially  human  beings. 
Boston's  immense  material  growth  —  commerce,  finance,  commission 
stores,  the  plethora  of  goods,  the  crowded  streets  and  sidewalks  — 
made  of  course  the  first  surprising  show.  In  my  trip  out  West,  last 
year,  I  thought  the  wand  of  future  prosperity,  future  empire,  must 
soon  surely  be  wielded  by  St.  Louis,  Chicago,  beautiful  Denver, 
perhaps  San  Francisco;  but  I  see  the  said  wand  stretch' d  out  just  as 
decidedly  in  Boston,  with  just  as  much  certainty  of  staying;  evidences 
of  copious  capital  —  indeed  no  centre  of  the  New  World  ahead  of  it, 
(half  the  big  railroads  in  the  West  are  built  with  Yankees'  money, 
and  they  take  the  dividends.)  Old  Boston  with  its  zigzag  streets  and 
multitudinous  angles,  (crush  up  a  sheet  of  letter-paper  in  your  hand, 
throw  it  down,  stamp  it  flat,  and  that  is  a  map  of  old  Boston)  —  new 
Boston  with  its  miles  upon  miles  of  large  and  costly  houses  —  Beacon 
street,  Commonwealth  avenue,  and  a  hundred  others.  But  the  best 
new  departures  and  expansions  of  Boston,  and  of  all  the  cities  of  New 
England,  are  in  another  direction. 

THE  BOSTON  OF  In  the  letters  we  get  from  Dr.  Schliemann 
TO-DAY  (interesting  but  fishy)  about  his  excava 

tions  there  in   the    far-off"  Homeric  area, 

I  notice  cities,  ruins,  &c.,  as  he  digs  them  out  of  their  graves,  are  cer 
tain  to  be  in  layers  —  that  is  to  say,  upon  the  foundation  of  an  old 
concern,  very  far  down  indeed,  is  always  another  city  or  set  of  ruins, 
and  upon  that  another  superadded  —  and  sometimes  upon  that  still 
another  —  each  representing  either  a  long  or  rapid  stage  of  growth 
and  development,  different  from  its  predecessor,  but  unerringly  grow 
ing  out  of  and  resting  on  it.  In  the  moral,  emotional,  heroic,  and 
human  growths,  (the  main  of  a  race  in  my  opinion,)  something  of  this 
kind  has  certainly  taken  place  in  Boston.  The  New  England  metrop 
olis  of  to-day  may  be  described  as  sunny,  (there  is  something  else  that 
makes  warmth,  mastering  even  winds  and  meteorologies,  though  those 
are  not  to  be  sneez'd  at,)  joyous,  receptive,  full  of  ardor,  sparkle,  a 
certain  element  of  yearning,  magnificently  tolerant,  yet  not  to  be  fool'd; 
fond  of  good  eating  and  drinking  —  costly  in  costume  as  its  purse  can 
buy;  and  all  through  its  best  average  of  houses,  streets,  people,  that  subtle 
something  (generally  thought  to  be  climate,  but  it  is  not  —  it  is  some 
thing  indefinable  in  the  race,  the  turn  of  its  development)  which 
effuses  behind  the  whirl  of  animation,  study,  business,  a  happy  and 
joyous  public  spirit,  as  distinguish' d  from  a  sluggish  and  saturnine  one. 
Makes  me  think  of  the  glints  we  get  (as  in  Symonds's  books)  of  the 
jolly  old  Greek  cities.  Indeed  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the  Hellenic  in 
B.,  and  the  people  are  getting  handsomer  too — padded  out,  with 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  173 

freer  motions,  and  with  color  in  their  faces.  I  never  saw  (although 
this  is  not  Greek)  so  many  fine- looking  gray-baiS  d  women.  At  my 
lecture  I  caught  myself  pausing  more  than  once  to  look  at  them,  plen 
tiful  everywhere  through  the  audience — healthy  and  wifely  and 
motherly,  and  wonderfully  charming  and  beautiful  —  I  think  such  as 
no  time  or  land  but  ours  could  show. 

MY  TRIBUTE  TO  April  16. —  A  short  but  pleasant  visit  to 

FOUR  POETS  Longfellow.      I  am  not  one  of  the  calling 

kind,  but  as  the  author  of  "  Evangeline  " 

kindly  took  the  trouble  to  come  and  see  me  three  years  ago  in  Camden, 
where  I  was  ill,  I  felt  not  only  the  impulse  of  my  own  pleasure  on 
that  occasion,  but  a  duty.  He  was  the  only  particular  eminence  I 
called  on  in  Boston,  and  I  shall  not  soon  forget  his  lit-up  face  and 
glowing  warmth  and  courtesy,  in  the  modes  of  what  is  called  the  old 

school. 

And  now  just  here  I  feel  the  impulse  to  interpolate  something  about 
the  mighty  four  who  stamp  this  first  American  century  with  its  birth 
marks  of  poetic  literature.      In  a  late  magazine  one  of  my  reviewers, 
who  ought  to  know  better,  speaks  of  my  "attitude  of  contempt  and 
scorn  and  intolerance  "  toward  the  leading  poets  — of  my  "  deriding  " 
them,  and  preaching  their  "uselessness."      If  anybody  cares  to  know 
what   I  think  —  and  have  long  thought  and  avow'd  —  about  them,  I 
am  entirely  willing  to  propound.      I  can't  imagine  any  better  luck  be 
falling  these  States  for  a  poetical  beginning  and  initiation  than  has  come 
from  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Bryant,  and  Whittier.      Emerson,  to  me, 
stands  unmistakably  at  the  head,  but  for  the  others  I  am  at  a  loss  where 
to  give  any  precedence.      Each  illustrious,  each  rounded,  each  distinc 
tive.      Emerson  for  his  sweet,  vital-tasting  melody,  rhym'd  philosophy, 
and  poems  as  amber-clear  as  the  honey  of  the  wild  bee  he  loves  to 
sing.      Longfellow  for  rich  color,  graceful  forms  and  incidents  —  all 
that  makes  life  beautiful  and  love  refined  —  competing  with  the  singers 
of  Europe  on  their  own  ground,  and,  with  one  exception,  better  and 
finer  work  than  that  of  any  of  them.      Bryant  pulsing  the  first  interior 
verse-throbs  of  a  mighty  world  —  bard  of  the  river  and  the  wood,  ever 
conveying  a   taste  of  open  air,  with  scents  as  from  hayfields,  grapes, 
birch-borders  —  always  lurkingly  fond  of  threnodies  —  beginning  and 
ending    his    long  career  with  chants    of  death,   with  ^  here  and  there 
through    all,    poems,    or    passages    of    poems,    touching    the    highest 
universal  truths,  enthusiasms,   duties  —  morals  as  grim  and  eternal,   if 
not  as  stormy  and  fateful,  as  anything  in  Eschylus.      While  in  Whit- 
tier,  with  his  special  themes  —  (his  outcropping  love  of  heroism  and 
war,  for  all  his  Quakerdom,  his  verses  at  times  like  the  measured  step 
of  Cromwell's  old  veterans)  —  in   Whittier  lives  the  zeal,  the  moral 


I74  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

energy  that  founded  New  England  —  the  splendid  rectitude  and  ardor 
of  Luther,  Milton,  George  Fox  — I  must  not,  dare  not  say  the 
wilfulness  and  narrowness  —  though  doubtless  the  world  needs  now, 
and  always  will  need,  almost  above  all,  just  such  narrowness  and  wil 
fulness. 

MILLET'S  PIC-  April  iS.  —  Went  out  three  or  four  miles 

TURES LAST  to  the  house  of  guincy  Shaw,  to  see  a 

ITEMS  collection  of  J .  F.  Millet* s  pictures.     Two 

rapt  hours.      Never  before  have  I  been  so 

penetrated  by  this  kind  of  expression.  I  stood  long  and  long  before 
"the  Sower."  I  believe  what  the  picture-men  designate  "the  first 
Sower  "  as  the  artist  executed  a  second  copy,  and  a  third,  and,  some 
think,  improved  in  each.  But  I  doubt  it.  There  is  something  in  this 
that  could  hardly  be  caught  again  — a  sublime  murkmess  and  original 
pent  fury.  Besides  this  masterpiece,  there  were  many  others,  (I  sha 
never  forget  the  simple  evening  scene,  «•  Watering  the  Cow,  )  all 
inimitable,  all  perfect  as  pictures,  works  of  mere  art;  and  then  it 
seem'd  to  me,  with  that  last  impalpable  ethic  purpose  from  the  artist 
(most  likely  unconscious  to  himself)  which  I  am  always  looking  for. 
To  me  all  of  them  told  the  full  story  of  what  went  before  and  neces 
sitated  the  great  French  revolution  —  the  long  precedent  crushing  of 
the  masses  of  a  heroic  people  into  the  earth,  in  abject  poverty,  hunger 
—  every  right  denied,  humanity  attempted  to  be  put  back  for  genera 
tions—yet  Nature's  force,  titanic  here,  the  stronger  and  hardier  for 
that  repression  — waiting  terribly  to  break  forth,  revengeful  —  the  pres 
sure  on  the  dykes,  and  the  bursting  at  last  — the  storming  of  the  Bas- 
tile  — the  execution  of  the  king  and  queen  — the  tempest  of  massacres 
and  blood.  Yet  who  can  wonder  ? 

Could  we  wish  humanity  different  ? 

Could  we  wish  the  people  made  of  wood  or  stone  ? 

Or  that  there  be  no  justice  in  destiny  or  time  ? 

The  true  France,  base  of  all  the  rest,  is  certainly  in  these  pictures. 
I  comprehend  "Field-People  Reposing,"  "the  Diggers,"  and  "the 
Aneelus "  in  this  opinion.  Some  folks  always  think  of  the  French  as 
a  small  race,  five  or  five  and  a  half  feet  high,  and  ever  frivolous  and 
smirking.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  The  bulk  of  the  personnel  of  France 
before  the  revolution,  was  large-sized,  serious,  industrious  as  now,  and 
simple  The  revolution  and  Napoleon's  wars  dwarf 'd  the  standard  of 
human  size,  but  it  will  come  up  again.  If  for  nothing  else,  I  should 
dwell  on  my  brief  Boston  visit  for  opening  to  me  the  new  world  c 
Millet's  pictures.  Will  America  ever  have  such  an  artist  out  of  her 
own  gestation,  body,  soul  ? 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  175 

Sunday,  April  If.  —  An  hour  and  a  half,  late  this  afternoon,  in 
silence  and  half  light,  in  the  great  nave  of  Memorial  hall,  Cambridge, 
the  walls  thickly  cover' d  with  mural  tablets,  bearing  the  names  of 
students  and  graduates  of  the  university  who  fell  in  the  secession  war. 

April  23.  —  It  was  well  I  got  away  in  fair  order,  for  if  I  had  staid 
another  week  I  should  have  been  killed  with  kindness,  and  with  eating 
and  drinking. 

BIRDS  —  AND    A  May  14.  —  Home  again;  down  tempora- 

CAUTION  rily  in  the  Jersey  woods.      Between  8  and 

9  A.M.  a  full  concert  of  birds,  from  differ 
ent  quarters,  in  keeping  with  the  fresh  scent,  the  peace,  the  naturalness 
all  around  me.  I  am  lately  noticing  the  russet-back,  size  of  the  robin 
or  a  trifle  less,  light  breast  and  shoulders,  with  irregular  dark  stripes  — 
tail  long — sits  hunch*  d  up  by  the  hour  these  days,  top  of  a  tall  bush, 
or  some  tree,  singing  blithely.  I  often  get  near  and  listen,  as  he 
seems  tame  ;  I  like  to  watch  the  working  of  his  bill  and  throat,  the 
quaint  sidle  of  his  body,  and  flex  of  his  long  tail.  I  hear  the  wood 
pecker,  and  night  and  early  morning  the  shuttle  of  the  whip-poor-will 
—  noons,  the  gurgle  of  thrush  delicious,  and  meo-o-ow  of  the  cat-bird. 
Many  I  cannot  name;  but  I  do  not  very  particularly  seek  information. 
(You  must  not  know  too  much,  or  be  too  precise  or  scientific  about 
birds  and  trees  and  flowers  and  water-craft ;  a  certain  free  margin,  and 
even  vagueness  —  perhaps  ignorance,  credulity  —  helps  your  enjoy 
ment  of  these  things,  and  of  the  sentiment  of  feather' d,  wooded,  river, 
or  marine  Nature  generally.  I  repeat  it  —  don't  want  to  know  too 
exactly,  or  the  reasons  why.  My  own  notes  have  been  written  ofF- 
hand  in  the  latitude  of  middle  New  Jersey.  Though  they  describe 
what  I  saw  —  what  appear' d  to  me  —  I  dare  say  the  expert  ornitholo 
gist,  botanist  or  entomologist  will  detect  more  than  one  slip  in  them.) 

SAMPLES    OF    MY          I  ought  not  to  offer  a  record  of  these  days, 
COMMON-PLACE  interests,  recuperations,  without  including 

BOOK  a  certain  old,  well-thumb' d  common-place 

book,*  filled  with  favorite  excerpts,  I  car- 
ried  in  my  pocket  for  three  summers,  and  absorb' d  over  and  over  again, 

Samples  of  my  common-place  book  down  at  the  creek : 

*  I  have  —  says  old  Pindar  —  many  swift  arrows  in  my  quiver  which  speak 
to  the  wise,  though  they  need  an  interpreter  to  the  thoughtless. 
Such  a  man  as  it  takes  ages  to  make,  and  ages  to  understand. 

H.  D.    Thoreau 

If  you  hate  a  man,  don't  kill  him,  but  let  him  live.  — Buddhistic. 
Famous  swords  are  made  of  refuse  scraps,  thought  worthless. 
13 


176  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

when  the  mood  invited.  I  find  so  much  in  having  a  poem  or  fine 
suggestion  sink  into  me  (a  little  then  goes  a  great  ways)  prepar'd  by 
these  vacant-sane  and  natural  influences. 

MY  NATIVE  SAND  July  25,  f  Si.  — Far  Rockazuay,  L.  /.  — 
AND  SALT  ONCE  A  good  day  here,  on  a  jaunt,  amid  the 
MORE  sand  and  salt,  a  steady  breeze  setting  in 

from  the  sea,  the  sun  shining,  the  sedge- 
odor,  the  noise  of  the  surf,  a  mixture  of  hissing  and  booming,  the 

Poetry  is  the  only  verity  —  the  expression  of  a  sound  mind  speaking 
after  the  ideal  — and  not  after  the  apparent.  — Emerson. 

The  form  of  oath  among  the  Shoshone  Indians  is,  "The  earth  hears 
me.  The  sun  hears  me.  Shall  I  lie  ?  " 

The  true  test  of  civilization  is  not  the  census,  nor  the  size  of  cities,  nor 
the  crops  —  no,  but  the  kind  of  a  man  the  country  turns  out.  —  Emerson. 
The  whole  wide  ether  is  the  eagle's  sway  : 
The  whole  earth  is  a  brave  man's  fatherland.  — Euripides. 
Spices  crush' d,  their  pungence  yield, 

Trodden  scents  their  sweets  respire  ; 
Would  you  have  its  strength  reveal'  d  ? 

Cast  the  incense  in  the  fire. 

Matthew  Arnold  speaks  of  "the  huge  Mississippi  of  falsehood  called 
History." 

The  wind  blows  north,  the  wind  blows  south, 

The  wind  blows  east  and  west j 
No  matter  how  the  free  wind  blows, 
Some  ship  will  find  it  best. 

Preach  not  to  others  what  they  should  eat,  but  eat  as  becomes  you,  and 
be  silent.  — Epictetus. 

Victor  Hugo  makes  a  donkey  meditate  and  apostrophize  thus  : 

My  brother,  man,  if  you  would  know  the  truth, 
We  both  are  by  the  same  dull  walls  shut  in  j 
The  gate  is  massive  and  the  dungeon  strong. 
But  you  look  through  the  key-hole  out  beyond, 
And  call  this  knowledge ;  yet  have  not  at  hand 
The  key  wherein  to  turn  the  fatal  lock. 

"William  Cullen  Bryant  surprised  me  once,"  relates  a  writer  in  a  New 
York  paper,  "by  saying  that  prose  was  the  natural  language  of  composi 
tion,  and  he  wonder' d  how  anybody  came  to  write  poetry." 

Farewell  !  I  did  not  know  thy  worth  ; 

But  thou  art  gone,  and  now  't;is  prized  : 
So  angels  walk'd  unknown  on  earth, 

But  when  they  flew  were  recognized.  —  Hood. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  17? 

milk-white  crests  curling  over.  I  had  a  leisurely  bath  and  naked 
ramble  as  of  old,  on  the  warm-gray  shore-sands,  my  companions  off 
in  a  boat  in  deeper  water — (I  shouting  to  them  Jupiter's  menaces 
against  the  gods,  from  Pope's  Homer.) 

July  28  —  to  Long  Branch.  —  8^  A.M.,  on  the  steamer  "Ply 
mouth  Rock,"  foot  of  23d  street,  New  York,  for  Long  Branch. 
Another  fine  day,  fine  sights,  the  shores,  the  shipping  and  bay- 

John  Burroughs,  writing  of  Thoreau,  says  :  "He  improves  with  aga 
in  fact  requires  age  to  take  off  a  little  of  his  asperity,  and  fully  ripen  him. 
The  world  likes  a  good  hater  and  refuser  almost  as  well  as  it  likes  a  good 
lover  and  accepter  —  only  it  likes  him  farther  off." 

Louise  Michel  at  the  burial  of  Blanqui,  (1881.) 

Blanqui  drill' d  his  body  to  subjection  to  his  grand  conscience  and  his 
noble  passions,  and  commencing  as  a  young  man,  broke  with  all  that  is 
sybaritish  in  modern  civilization.  Without  the  power  to  sacrifice  self,  great 
ideas  will  never  bear  fruit. 

Out  of  the  leaping  furnace  flame 

A  mass  of  molten  silver  came  ; 

Then,  beaten  into  pieces  three, 

Went  forth  to  meet  its  destiny. 

The  first  a  crucifix  was  made, 

Within  a  soldier's  knapsack  laid  ; 

The  second  was  a  locket  fair, 

Where  a  mother  kept  her  dead  child' s  hair ; 

The  third  —  a  bangle,  bright  and  warm, 

Around  a  faithless  woman's  arm. 

A  mighty  pain  to  love  it  is, 
And  'tis  a  pain  that  pain  to  miss  j 
But  of  all  pain  the  greatest  pain, 
It  is  to  love,  but  love  in  vain. 

Maurice  F.  Egan  on  De  Gutrin. 

A  pagan  heart,  a  Christian  soul  had  he, 

He  followed  Christ,  yet  for  dead  Pan  he  sigh'd, 
Till  earth  and  heaven  met  within  his  breast  : 

As  if  Theocritus  in  Sicily 

Had  come  upon  the  Figure  crucified, 

And  lost  his  gods  in  deep,  Christ-given  rest. 

And  if  I  pray,  the  only  prayer 

That  moves  my  lips  for  me, 
Is,  leave  the  mind  that  now  I  bear, 

And  give  me  Liberty.  —  Emily  Bronte. 

I  travel  on  not  knowing, 

I  would  not  if  I  might  j 
I  would  rather  walk  with  God  in  the  dark, 


I78  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

everything  comforting  to  the  body  and  spirit  of  me.  (I  find  the 
human  and  objective  atmosphere  of  New  York  city  and  Brooklyn 
more  affiliative  to  me  than  any  other.)  An  hour  later  —  Still  on  the 
steamer,  now  sniffing  the  salt  very  plainly —  the  long  pulsating  swash 
as  our  boat  steams  seaward  —  the  hills  of  Navesink  and  many  passing 

vessels the  air  the  best  part  of  all.      At  Long  Branch  the  bulk  of  the 

day,  stopt  at  a  good  hotel,  took  all  very  leisurely,  had  an  excellent 
dinner,  and  then  drove  for  over  two  hours  about  the  place,  especially 
Ocean  avenue,  the  finest  drive  one  can  imagine,  seven  or  eight  miles 
right  along  the  beach.  In  all  directions  costly  villas,  palaces,  mil 
lionaires —  (but  few  among  them  I  opine  like  my  friend  George  W. 
Childs,  whose  personal  integrity,  generosity,  unaffected  simplicity,  go 
beyond  all  worldly  wealth.) 

HOT    WEATHER  August.  —  In  the  big  city  awhile.     Even 

NEW    YORK  the  height  of  the  dog-days,  there  is  a  good 

deal  of  fun  about  New  York,  if  you  only 

avoid  fluster,  and  take  all  the  buoyant  wholesomeness  that  offers. 
More  comfort,  too,  than  most  folks  think.  A  middle-aged  man,  with 
plenty  of  money  in  his  pocket,  tells  me  that  he  has  been  off  for  a 
month  to  all  the  swell  places,  has  disbursed  a  small  fortune,  has  been 
hot  and  out  of  kilter  everywhere,  and  has  return*  d  home  and  lived  in 
New  York  city  the  last  two  weeks  quite  contented  and  happy.  Peo 
ple  forget  when  it  is  hot  here,  it  is  generally  hotter  still  in  other  places. 

Than  go  alone  in  the  light ; 
I  would  rather  walk  with  Him  by  faith 
Than  pick  my  way  by  sight 

Prof.  Huxley  in  a  late  lecture. 

I  myself  agree  with  the  sentiment  of  Thomas  Hobbes,  of  Malmesbury, 
that  "the  scope  of  all  speculation  is  the  performance  of  some  action  or 
thing  to  be  done."  I  have  not  any  very  great  respect  for,  or  interest  in, 
mere  "knowing,"  as  such. 

Prince  Metternicb. 

Napoleon  was  of  all  men  in  the  world  the  one  who  most  profoundly  de 
spised  the  race.  He  had  a  marvellous  insight  into  the  weaker  sides  of 
human  nature,  (and  all  our  passions  are  either  foibles  themselves,  or  the 
cause  of  foibles.)  He  was  a  very  small  man  of  imposing  character.  He 
was  ignorant,  as  a  sub-lieutenant  generally  is  :  a  remarkable  instinct  sup 
plied  the  lack  of  knowledge.  From  his  mean  opinion  of  men,  he  never  had 
any  anxiety  lest  he  should  go  wrong.  He  ventur'd  everything,  and  gain'd 
thereby  an  immense  step  toward  success.  Throwing  himself  upon  a  pro 
digious  arena,  he  amaz'd  the  world,  and  made  himself  master  of  it,  while 
others  cannot  even  get  so  far  as  being  masters  of  their  own  hearth.  Then 
he  went  on  and  on,  until  he  broke  his  neck. 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  179 

New  York  is  so  situated,  with  the  great  ozonic  brine  on  both  sides,  it 
comprises  the  most  favorable  health-chances  in  the  world.  (If  only 
the  suffocating  crowding  of  some  of  its  tenement  houses  could  be  broken 
up.)  I  find  I  never  sufficiently  realized  how  beautiful  are  the  upper 
two-thirds  of  Manhattan  island.  I  am  stopping  at  Mott  Haven,  and 
have  been  familiar  now  for  ten  days  with  the  region  above  One-hun 
dredth  street,  and  along  the  Harlem  river  and  Washington  heights. 
Am  dwelling  a  few  days  with  my  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  H.  J., 
and  a  merry  houseful  of  young  ladies.  Am  putting  the  last  touches 
on  the  printer's  copy  of  my  new  volume  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  — 
the  completed  book  at  last.  Work  at  it  two  or  three  hours,  and  then 
go  down  and  loaf  along  the  Harlem  river  ;  have  just  had  a  good  spell 
of  this  recreation.  The  sun  sufficiently  veil'd,  a  soft  south  breeze,  the 
river  full  of  small  or  large  shells  (light  taper  boats)  darting  up  and 
down,  some  singly,  now  and  then  long  ones  with  six  or  eight  young 
fellows  practicing —  very  inspiriting  sights.  Two  fine  yachts  lie 
anchor' d  off  the  shore.  I  linger  long,  enjoying  the  sundown,  the 
glow,  the  streak'd  sky,  the  heights,  distances,  shadows. 

Aug.  10.  — As  I  haltingly  ramble  an  hour  or  two  this  forenoon  by 
the  more  secluded  parts  of  the  shore,  or  sit  under  an  old  cedar  half 
way  up  the  hill,  the  city  near  in  view,  many  young  parties  gather  to 
bathe  or  swim,  squads  of  boys,  generally  twos  or  threes,  some  larger 
ones,  along  the  sand-bottom,  or  off  an  old  pier  close  by.  A  peculiar 
and  pretty  carnival  —  at  its  height  a  hundred  lads  or  young  men,  very 
democratic,  but  all  decent  behaving.  The  laughter,  voices,  calls^  re- 
responses —  the  springing  and  diving  of  the  bathers  from  the  great  string- 
piece  of  the  decay*  d  pier,  where  climb  or  stand  long  ranks  of  them, 
naked,  rose-color' d,  with  movements,  postures  ahead  of  any  sculpture. 
To  all  this,  the  sun,  so  bright,  the  dark-green  shadow  of  the  hills  the  other 
side,  the  amber-rolling  waves,  changing  as  the  tide  comes  in  to  a  trans 
parent  tea-color  —  the  frequent  splash  of  the  playful  boys,  sousing  —  the 
glittering  drops  sparkling,  and  the  good  western  breeze  blowing. 

««  CUSTER'S  LAST  Went  to-day  to  see  this  just-finish' d  paint- 
RALLY"  ing  by  John  Mulvany,  who  has  been  out 

in  far  Dakota,  on  the  spot,  at   the  forts, 

and  among  the  frontiersmen,  soldiers  and  Indians,  for  the  last  two 
years,  on  purpose  to  sketch  it  in  from  reality,  or  the  best  that  could 
be  got  of  it.  Sat  for  over  an  hour  before  the  picture,  completely 
absorb' d  in  the  first  view.  A  vast  canvas,  I  should  say  twenty  or 
twenty-two  feet  by  twelve,  all  crowded,  and  yet  not  crowded,  con 
veying  such  a  vivid  play  of  color,  it  takes  a  little  time  to  get  used  to 
it.  There  are  no  tricks  ;  there  is  no  throwing  of  shades  in  masses  ; 
it  is  all  at  first  painfully  real,  overwhelming,  needs  good  nerves  to 


i8o  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

look  at  it.  Forty  or  fifty  figures,  perhaps  more,  in  full  finish  and 
detail  in  the  mid-ground,  with  three  times  that  number,  or  more, 
through  the  rest  —  swarms  upon  swarms  of  savage  Sioux,  in  their 
war-bonnets,  frantic,  mostly  on  ponies,  driving  through  the  back 
ground,  through  the  smoke,  like  a  hurricane  of  demons.  A  dozen  of 
the  figures  are  wonderful.  Altogether  a  western,  autochthonic  phase 
of  America,  the  frontiers,  culminating,  typical,  deadly,  heroic  to  the 
uttermost  —  nothing  in  the  books  like  it,  nothing  in  Homer,  nothing 
in  Shakspere  ;  more  grim  and  sublime  than  either,  all  native,  all  our 
own,  and  all  a  fact.  A  great  lot  of  muscular,  tan-faced  men,  brought 
to  bay  under  terrible  circumstances  —  death  ahold  of  them,  yet  every 
man  undaunted,  not  one  losing  his  head,  wringing  out  every  cent  of 
the  pay  before  they  sell  their  lives.  Custer  (his  hair  cut  short)  stands 
in  the  middle,  with  dilated  eye  and  extended  arm,  aiming  a  huge 
cavalry  pistol.  Captain  Cook  is  there,  partially  wounded,  blood  on 
the  white  handkerchief  around  his  head,  aiming  his  carbine  coolly, 
half  kneeling  —  (his  body  was  afterwards  found  close  by  Custer' s.) 
The  slaughter' d  or  half-slaughter' d  horses,  for  breastworks,  make  a 
peculiar  feature.  Two  dead  Indians,  herculean,  lie  in  the  foreground, 
clutching  their  Winchester  rifles,  very  characteristic.  The  many  sol 
diers,  their  faces  and  attitudes,  the  carbines,  the  broad-brimm'd  west 
ern  hats,  the  powder-smoke  in  puffs,  the  dying  horses  with  their 
rolling  eyes  almost  human  in  their  agony,  the  clouds  of  war -bonneted 
Sioux  in  the  background,  the  figures  of  Custer  and  Cook  —  with 
indeed  the  whole  scene,  dreadful,  yet  with  an  attraction  and  beauty 
that  will  remain  in  my  memory.  With  all  its  color  and  fierce  action, 
a  certain  Greek  continence  pervades  it.  A  sunny  sky  and  clear  light 
envelop  all.  There  is  an  almost  entire  absence  of  the  stock  traits  of 
European  war  pictures.  The  physiognomy  of  the  work  is  realistic 
and  Western.  I  only  saw  it  for  an  hour  or  so  ;  but  it  needs  to  be 
seen  many  times  —  needs  to  be  studied  over  and  over  again.  I  could 
look  on  such  a  work  at  brief  intervals  all  my  life  without  tiring  ;  it  is 
very  tonic  to  me  ;  then  it  has  an  ethic  purpose  below  all,  as  all  great 
art  must  have.  The  artist  said  the  sending  of  the  picture  abroad, 
probably  to  London,  had  been  talk'd  of.  I  advised  him  if  it  went 
abroad  to  take  it  to  Paris.  I  think  they  might  appreciate  it  there  — 
nay,  they  certainly  would.  Then  I  would  like  to  show  Messieur 
Crapeau  that  some  things  can  be  done  in  America  as  well  as  others. 

SOME  OLD  AC-  Aug.  16.  —  "Chalk   a  big  mark  for    to- 

QUAINTANCES —         day,"  was  one  of  the  sayings  of  an  old 
MEMORIES  sportsman-friend    of  mine,   when  he  had 

had    unusually    good    luck  —  come    home 
thoroughly  tired,  but  with  satisfactory  results  of  fish  or  birds.      Well, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  181 

to-day  might  warrant  such  a  mark  for  me.  Everything  propitious  from 
the  start.  An  hour's  fresh  stimulation,  coming  down  ten  miles  of 
Manhattan  island  by  railroad  and  8  o'clock  stage.  Then  an  excellent 
breakfast  at  Pfaft's  restaurant,  24th  street.  Our  host  himself,  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  quickly  appear' d  on  the  scene  to  welcome  me  and 
bring  up  the  news,  and,  first  opening  a  big  fat  bottle  of  the  best  wine 
in  the  cellar,  talk  about  ante-bellum  times,  '59  and  '60,  and  the 
jovial  suppers  at  his  then  Broadway  place,  near  Bleecker  street.  Ah, 
the  friends  and  names  and  frequenters,  those  times,  that  place.  Most 
are  dead  —  Ada  Clare,  Wilkins,  Daisy  Sheppard,  O'Brien,  Henry 
Clapp,  Stanley,  Mullin,  Wood,  Brougham,  Arnold  —  all  gone.  And 
there  Pfaff  and  I,  sitting  opposite  each  other  at  the  little  table,  gave 
a  remembrance  to  them  in  a  style  they  would  have  themselves  fully 
confirm' d,  namely,  big,  brimming,  filPd-up  champagne-glasses,  drain' d 
in  abstracted  silence,  very  leisurely,  to  the  last  drop.  (Pfaffis  a  gen 
erous  German  restaurateur,  silent,  stout,  jolly,  and  I  should  say  the 
best  selecter  of  champagne  in  America. ) 

A  DISCOVERY  OF  Perhaps  the  best  is  always  cumulative. 
OLD  AGE  One' s  eating  and  drinking  one  wants  fresh, 

and    for  the  nonce,    right    off,   and  have 

done  with  it  —  but  I  would  not  give  a  straw  for  that  person  or  poem, 
or  friend,  or  city,  or  work  of  art,  that  was  not  more  grateful  the 
second  time  than  the  first  —  and  more  still  the  third.  Nay,  I  do  not 
believe  any  grandest  eligibility  ever  comes  forth  at  first.  In  my  own 
experience,  (persons,  poems,  places,  characters,)  I  discover  the  best 
hardly  ever  at  first,  (no  absolute  rule  about  it,  however,)  sometimes 
suddenly  bursting  forth,  or  stealthily  opening  to  me,  perhaps  after 
years  of  unwitting  familiarity,  unappreciation,  usage. 

A  VISIT,  AT  THE  Concord,  Mass. —  Out  here  on  a  visit  — 
LAST,  TO  R.  W.  elastic,  mellow,  Indian-summery  weather. 
EMERSON  Came  to-day  from  Boston,  (a  pleasant 

ride    of  40    minutes    by    steam,    through 

Somerville,  Belmont,  Waltham,  Stony  Brook,  and  other  lively  towns,) 
convoy 'd  by  my  friend  F.  B.  Sanborn,  and  to  his  ample  house,  and 
the  kindness  and  hospitality  of  Mrs.  S.  and  their  fine  family.  Am 
writing  this  under  the  shade  of  some  old  hickories  and  elms,  just  after 
4  P.M.,  on  the  porch,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Concord  river. 
Off  against  me,  across  stream,  on  a  meadow  and  side-hill,  haymakers 
are  gathering  and  wagoning-in  probably  their  second  or  third  crop. 
The  spread  of  emerald-green  and  brown,  the  knolls,  the  score  or  two 
of  little  haycocks  dotting  the  meadow,  the  loaded-up  wagons,  the 
patient  horses,  the  slow-strong  action  of  the  men  and  pitchforks  —  all 


1 82  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

in  the  just-waning  afternoon,  with  patches  of  yellow  sun-sheen,  mottled 
by  long  shadows  —  a  cricket  shrilly  chirping,  herald  of  the  dusk  —  a 
boat  with  two  figures  noiselessly  gliding  along  the  little  river,  passing 
under  the  stone  bridge-arch  —  the  slight  settling  haze  of  aerial  moisture, 
the  sky  and  the  peacefulness  expanding  in  all  directions  and  overhead  — 
fill  and  soothe  me. 

Same  Evening.  —  Never  had  I  a  better  piece  of  luck  befall  me  :  a 
long  and  blessed  evening  with  Emerson,  in  a  way  I  couldn't  have 
wish'd  better  or  different.  For  nearly  two  hours  he  has  been  placidly 
sitting  where  I  could  see  his  face  in  the  best  light,  near  me.  Mrs.  S.'s 
back-parlor  well  filPd  with  people,  neighbors,  many  fresh  and  charm 
ing  faces,  women,  mostly  young,  but  some  old.  My  friend  A.  B. 
Alcott  and  his  daughter  Louisa  were  there  early.  A  good  deal  of 
talk,  the  subject  Henry  Thoreau  —  some  new  glints  of  his  life  and 
fortunes,  with  letters  to  and  from  him  —  one  of  the  best  by  Margaret 
Fuller,  others  by  Horace  Greeley,  Channing,  &c. —  one  from  Thoreau 
himself,  most  quaint  and  interesting.  (No  doubt  I  seem'd  very  stupid 
to  the  roomful  of  company,  taking  hardly  any  part  in  the  conversa 
tion;  but  I  had  "my  own  pail  to  milk  in,"  as  the  Swiss  proverb  puts 
it.)  My  seat  and  the  relative  arrangement  were  such  that,  without 
being  rude,  or  anything  of  the  kind,  I  could  just  look  squarely  at  E., 
which  I  did  a  good  part  of  the  two  hours.  On  entering,  he  had 
spoken  very  briefly  and  politely  to  several  of  the  company,  then  settled 
himself  in  his  chair,  a  trifle  push'd  back,  and,  though  a  listener  and 
apparently  an  alert  one,  remained  silent  through  the  whole  talk  and  dis 
cussion.  A  lady  friend  quietly  took  a  seat  next  him,  to  give  special 
attention.  A  good  color  in  his  face,  eyes  clear,  with  the  well-known 
expression  of  sweetness,  and  the  old  clear-peering  aspect  quite  the 
same. 

Next  Day.  —  Several  hours  at  E.'s  house,  and  dinner  there.  An 
old  familiar  house,  (he  has  been  in  it  thirty-five  years,)  with  surround 
ings,  furnishment,  roominess,  and  plain  elegance  and  fullness,  signifying 
democratic  ease,  sufficient  opulence,  and  an  admirable  old-fashioned 
simplicity  —  modern  luxury,  with  its  mere  sumptuousness  and  affecta 
tion,  either  touch' d  lightly  upon  or  ignored  altogether.  Dinner  the 
same.  Of  course  the  best  of  the  occasion  (Sunday,  September  1 8, 
'81)  wras  the  sight  of  E.  himself.  As  just  said,  a  healthy  color  in  the 
cheeks,  and  good  light  in  the  eyes,  cheery  expression,  and  just  the 
amount  of  talking  that  best  suited,  namely,  a  word  or  short  phrase  only 
where  needed,  and  almost  always  with  a  smile.  Besides  Emerson 
himself,  Mrs.  E.,  with  their  daughter  Ellen,  the  son  Edward  and  his 
wife,  with  my  friend  F.  S.  and  Mrs.  S.,  and  others,  relatives  and 
intimates.  Mrs.  Emerson,  resuming  the  subject  of  the  evening  before, 
(I  sat  next  to  her,)  gave  me  further  and  fuller  information  about 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  183 

Thoreau,  who,   years  ago,  during  Mr.  E.'s  absence   in   Europe,  had 
lived  for  some  time  in  the  family,  by  invitation. 

OTHER    CONCORD      Though    the  evening    at   Mr.    and    Mrs. 
NOTATIONS  Sanborn's,  and  the  memorable  family  din 

ner   at    Mr.    and    Mrs.    Emerson's,    have 

most  pleasantly  and  permanently  fill'd  my  memory,  I  must  not  slight 
other  notations  of  Concord.  I  went  to  the  old  Manse,  walk'd  through 
the  ancient  garden,  enter' d  the  rooms,  noted  the  quaintness,  the 
unkempt  grass  and  bushes,  the  little  paries  in  the  windows,  the  low 
ceilings,  the  spicy  smell,  the  creepers  embowering  the  light.  Went 
to  the  Concord  battle  ground,  which  is  close  by,  scann'd  French's 
statue,  "the  Minute  Man,"  read  Emerson's  poetic  inscription  on  the 
base,  linger' d  a  long  while  on  the  bridge,  and  stopp'd  by  the  grave  of 
the  unnamed  British  soldiers  buried  there  the  day  after  the  fight  in 
April,  '75.  Then  riding  on,  (thanks  to  my  friend  Miss  M.  and  her 
spirited  white  ponies,  she  driving  them,)  a  half  hour  at  Hawthorne's 
and  Thoreau' s  graves.  I  got  out  and  went  up  of  course  on  foot,  and 
stood  a  long  while  and  ponder'd.  They  lie  close  together  in  a  pleas 
ant  wooded  spot  well  up  the  cemetery  hill,  "Sleepy  Hollow."  The 
flat  surface  of  the  first  was  densely  cover' d  by  myrtle,  with  a  border 
of  arbor-vita?,  and  the  other  had  a  brown  headstone,  moderately  elab 
orate,  with  inscriptions.  By  Henry's  side  lies  his  brother  John,  of 
whom  much  was  expected,  but  he  died  young.  Then  to  Walden 
pond,  that  beautiful  embower' d  sheet  of  water,  and  spent  over  an  hour 
there.  On  the  spot  in  the  woods  where  Thoreau  had  his  solitary 
house  is  now  quite  a  cairn  of  stones,  to  mark  the  place ;  I  too  carried 
one  and  deposited  on  the  heap.  As  we  drove  back,  saw  the  "School 
of  Philosophy,"  but  it  was  shut  up,  and  I  would  not  have  it  open'd 
for  me.  Near  by  stopp'd  at  the  house  of  W.  T.  Harris,  the  Hege 
lian,  who  came  out,  and  we  had  a  pleasant  chat  while  I  sat  in  the 
wagon.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  those  Concord  drives,  and  especially 
that  charming  Sunday  forenoon  one  with  my  friend  Miss  M.,  and  the 
white  ponies. 

BOSTON  COMMON       Oct.  10-13.  —  I  spend  a  good  deal  of  time 

MORE  OF  EMER-     on  the   Common,  these  delicious  days  and 

SON  nights  —  every    mid-day    from    11.30    to 

about  i  —  and  almost  every  sunset  another 

hour.  I  know  all  the  big  trees,  especially  the  old  elms  along  Tremont 
and  Beacon  streets,  and  have  come  to  a  sociable-silent  understanding 
with  most  of  them,  in  the  sunlit  air,  (yet  crispy-cool  enough,)  as  I 
saunter  along  the  wide  unpaved  walks.  Up  and  down  this  breadth  by 
Beacon  street,  between  these  same  old  elms,  I  walk'd  for  two  hours. 


1 84  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

of  a  bright  sharp  February  mid-day  twenty-one  years  ago,  with  Emer 
son,  then  in  his  prime,  keen,  physically  and  morally  magnetic,  arm'd 
at  every  point,  and  when  he  chose,  wielding  the  emotional  just  as  well 
as  the  intellectual.  During  those  two  hours  he  was  the  talker  and  I  the 
listener.  It  was  an  argument-statement,  reconnoitring,  review,  attack, 
and  pressing  home,  (like  an  army  corps  in  order,  artillery,  cavalry, 
infantry,)  of  all  that  could  be  said  against  that  part  (and  a  main  part) 
in  the  construction  of  my  poems,  "Children  of  Adam."  More  pre 
cious  than  gold  to  me  that  dissertion  —  it  afforded  me,  ever  after,  this 
strange  and  paradoxical  lesson  ;  each  point  of  E.'s  statement  was 
unanswerable,  no  judge's  charge  ever  more  complete  or  convincing,  I 
could  never  hear  the  points  better  put  —  and  then  I  felt  down  in  my 
soul  the  clear  and  unmistakable  conviction  to  disobey  all,  and  pursue 
my  own  way.  "What  have  you  to  say  then  to  such  things  ?"  saidE., 
pausing  in  conclusion.  "Only  that  while  I  can't  answer  them  at  all, 
I  feel  more  settled  than  ever  to  adhere  to  my  own  theory,  and  exem 
plify  it,"  was  my  candid  response.  Whereupon  we  went  and  had  a 
good  dinner  at  the  American  House.  And  thenceforward  I  never 
waver' d  or  was  touch' d  with  qualms,  (as  I  confess  I  had  been  two  or 
three  times  before.) 

AN  OSSIANIC  Nov.,    '<$»/.—  Again   back   in    Camden. 

NIGHT  —  DEAREST  As  I  cross  the  Delaware  in  long  trips  to- 
FRIENDS  night,  between  9  and  11,  the  scene  over 

head   is  a  peculiar   one  —  swift  sheets   of 

flitting  vapor-gauze,  follow' d  by  dense  clouds  throwing  an  inky  pall  on 
everything.  Then  a  spell  of  that  transparent  steel-gray  black  sky  I 
have  noticed  under  similar  circumstances,  on  which  the  moon  would 
beam  for  a  few  moments  with  calm  lustre,  throwing  down  a  broad 
dazzle  of  highway  on  the  waters;  then  the  mists  careering  again.  All 
silently,  yet  driven  as  if  by  the  furies  they  sweep  along,  sometimes 
quite  thin,  sometimes  thicker  —  a  real  Ossianic  night  —  amid  the 
whirl,  absent  or  dead  friends,  the  old,  the  past,  somehow  tenderly 
suggested  —  while  the  Gael-strains  chant  themselves  from  the  mists  — 
["Be  thy  soul  blest,  O  Carril!  in  the  midst  of  thy  eddying  winds. 
O  that  thou  wouldst  come  to  my  hall  when  I  am  alone  by  night! 
And  thou  dost  come,  my  friend.  I  hear  often  thy  light  hand  on  my 
harp,  when  it  hangs  on  the  distant  wall,  and  the  feeble  sound  touches 
my  ear.  Why  dost  thou  not  speak  to  me  in  my  grief,  and  tell  me 
when  I  shall  behold  my  friends  ?  But  thou  passest  away  in  thy  mur 
muring  blast;  the  wind  whistles  through  the  gray  hairs  of  Ossian."] 

But  most  of  all,  those  changes  of  moon  and  sheets  of  hurrying  vapor 
and  black  clouds,  with  the  sense  of  rapid  action  in  weird  silence,  recall 
the  far-back  Erse  belief  that  such  above  were  the  preparations  for 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  185 

receiving  the  wraiths  of  just-slain  warriors —  ["We  sat  that  night  in 
Selma,  round  the  strength  of  the  shell.  The  wind  was  abroad  in  the 
oaks.  The  spirit  of  the  mountain  roar'd.  The  blast  came  rustling 
through  the  hall,  and  gently  touch' d  my  harp.  The  sound  was  mourn 
ful  and  low,  like  the  song  of  the  tomb.  Fingal  heard  it  the  first. 
The  crowded  sighs  of  his  bosom  rose.  Some  of  my  heroes  are  low, 
said  the  gray-hair' d  king  of  Morven.  I  hear  the  sound  of  death  on 
the  harp.  Ossian,  touch  the  trembling  string.  Bid  the  sorrow  rise,  that 
their  spirits  may  fly  with  joy  to  Morven' s  woody  hills.  I  touch' d  the 
harp  before  the  'king  ;  the  sound  was  mournful  and  low.  Bend 
forward  from  your  clouds,  I  said,  ghosts  of  my  fathers!  bend.  Lay 
by  the  red  terror  of  your  course.  Receive  the  falling  chief;  whether 
he  comes  from  a  distant  land,  or  rises  from  the  rolling  sea.  Let  his 
robe  of  mist  be  near;  his  spear  that  is  form'd  of  a  cloud.  Place 
a  half-extinguish' d  meteor  by  his  side,  in  the  form  of  a  hero's 
sword.  And  oh !  let  his  countenance  be  lovely,  that  his  friends  may 
delight  in  his  presence.  Bend  from  your  clouds,  I  said,  ghosts  of 
my  fathers,  bend.  Such  was  my  song  in  Selma,  to  the  lightly  tremb 
ling  harp."] 

How  or  why  I  know  not,  just  at  the  moment,  but  1  too  muse 
and  think  of  my  best  friends  in  their  distant  homes  —  of  William 
O'Connor,  of  Maurice  Bucke,  of  John  Burroughs,  and  of  Mrs. 

Gilchrist friends  of  my  soul  —  stanchest  friends  of  my  other  soul,  my 

poems. 

ONLY  A   NEW  Jan.  12,  '82.  —Such  a  show  as  the  Del- 

FERRY-BOAT  aware  presented  an  hour  before  sundown 

yesterday  evening,  all  along  between  Phil 
adelphia  and  Camden,  is  worth  weaving  into  an  item.  It  was  full 
tide,  a  fair  breeze  from  the  southwest,  the  water  of  a  pale  tawny 
color,  and  just  enough  motion  to  make  things  frolicsome  and  lively. 
Add  to  these  an  approaching  sunset  of  unusual  splendor,  a  broad  tum 
ble  of  clouds,  with  much  golden  haze  and  profusion  of  beaming  shaft 
and  dazzle.  In  the  midst  of  all,  in  the  clear  drab  of  the  afternoon 
light,  there  steam'd  up  the  river  the  large,  new  boat,  "  the  Wenonah," 
as  pretty  an  object  as  you  could  wish  to  see,  lightly  and  swiftly  skim 
ming  along,  all  trim  and  white,  cover' d  with  flags,  transparent  red 
and  blue,  streaming  out  in  the  breeze.  Only  a  new  ferry-boat,  and 
yet  in  its  fitness  comparable  with  the  prettiest  product  of  Nature's 
cunning,  and  rivaling  it.  High  up  in  the  transparent  ether  gracefully 
balanced  and  circled  four  or  five  great  sea  hawks,  while  here  below, 
amid  the  pomp  and  picturesqueness  of  sky  and  river,  swam  this  crea 
tion  of  artificial  beauty  and  motion  and  power,  in  its  way  no  less 
perfect. 


186  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

DEATH  OF  LONG-      Camden,  April  j,  '82.  —  I  have  just  re- 

FELLOW  turn'd  from  an  old  forest  haunt,  where   I 

love  to  go  occasionally  away  from  parlors, 

pavements,  and  the  newspapers  and  magazines  —  and  where,  of  a 
clear  forenoon,  deep  in  the  shade  of  pines  and  cedars  and  a  tangle  of 
old  laurel-trees  and  vines,  the  news  of  Longfellow's  death  first  reach' d 
me.  For  want  of  anything  better,  let  me  lightly  twine  a  sprig  of  the 
sweet  ground-ivy  trailing  so  plentifully  through  the  dead  leaves  at  my 
feet,  with  reflections  of  that  half  hour  alone,  there  in  the  silence,  and 
lay  it  as  my  contribution  on  the  dead  bard's  grave. 

Longfellow  in  his  voluminous  works  seems  to  me  not  only  to  be 
eminent  in  the  style  and  forms  of  poetical  expression  that  mark  the 
present  age,  (an  idiosyncrasy,  almost  a  sickness,  of  verbal  melody,) 
but  to  bring  what  is  always  dearest  as  poetry  to  the  general  human 
heart  and  taste,  and  probably  must  be  so  in  the  nature  of  things.  He 
is  certainly  the  sort  of  bard  and  counteractant  most  needed  for  our 
materialistic,  self-assertive,  money-worshipping,  Anglo-Saxon  races, 
and  especially  for  the  present  age  in  America  —  an  age  tyrannically 
regulated  with  reference  to  the  manufacturer,  the  merchant,  the  finan 
cier,  the  politician  and  the  day  workman  —  for  whom  and  among 
whom  he  comes  as  the  poet  of  melody,  courtesy,  deference  —  poet  of 
the  mellow  twilight  of  the  past  in  Italy,  Germany,  Spain,  and  in 
Northern  Europe  —  poet  of  all  sympathetic  gentleness  —  and  universal 
poet  of  women  and  young  people.  I  should  have  to  think  long  if  I 
were  ask'd  to  name  the  man  who  has  done  more,  and  in  more  valu 
able  directions,  for  America. 

I  doubt  if  there  ever  was  before  such  a  fine  intuitive  judge  and 
selecter  of  poems.  His  translations  of  many  German  and  Scandina 
vian  pieces  are  said  to  be  better  than  the  vernaculars.  He  does  not 
urge  or  lash.  His  influence  is  like  good  drink  or  air.  He  is  not 
tepid  either,  but  always  vital,  with  flavor,  motion,  grace.  He  strikes 
a  splendid  average,  and  does  not  sing  exceptional  passions,  or  human 
ity's  jagged  escapades.  He  is  not  revolutionary,  brings  nothing 
offensive  or  new,  does  not  deal  hard  blows.  On  the  contrary,  his 
songs  soothe  and  heal,  or  if  they  excite,  it  is  a  healthy  and  agreeable 
excitement.  His  very  anger  is  gentle,  is  at  second  hand,  (as  in  the 
"Quadroon  Girl"  and  the  "Witnesses.") 

There  is  no  undue  element  of  pensiveness  in  Longfellow's  strains. 
Even  in  the  early  translation,  the  Manrique,  the  movement  is  as  of  strong 
and  steady  wind  or  tide,  holding  up  and  buoying.  Death  is  not 
avoided  through  his  many  themes,  but  there  is  something  almost  win 
ning  in  his  original  verses  and  renderings  on  that  dread  subject  —  as, 
closing  "the  Happiest  Land"  dispute, 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  187 

And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 

Up  to  heaven  rais'd  her  hand, 
And  said,  "Ye  may  no  more  contend, 

There  lies  the  happiest  land." 

To  the  ungracious  complaint-charge  of  his  want  of  racy  nativity  and 
special  originality,  I  shall  only  say  that  America  and  the  world  may 
well  be  reverently  thankful  — can  never  be  thankful  enough  - 
any  such  singing-bird  vouchsafed  out  of  the  centuries,  without  asking 
that  the  notes  be  different  from  those  of  other  songsters;  adding  what  1 
have  heard  Longfellow  himself  say,  that  ere  the  New  World  can  be 
worthily  original,  and  announce  herself  and  her  own  heroes,  she  must 
be  well  saturated  with  the  originality  of  others,  and  respectfully  con 
sider  the  heroes  that  lived  before  Agamemnon. 

STARTING  NEWS-  As  I  sat  taking  my  evening  sail  across  the 
PAPERS  Delaware  in  the  staunch  ferry-boat  "  Bev- 

Reminhccnces( From  the  "Cam&n  erly,"  a  night  or  two  ago,  I  wasjoin'dby 
Courier")  two  young  reporter  friends.  "  I  have  a 

message  for  you,"  said  one  of  them;  "the 

C  folks  told  me  to  say  they  would  like  a  piece  sign'd  by  your  name, 
to'  go  in  their  first  number.  Can  you  do  it  for  them  ?  "  "  I  guess 
so,"  said  I;  "what  might  it  be  about?"  "Well,  anything  on 
newspapers,  or  perhaps  what  you've  done  yourself,  starting  them." 
And  off  the  boys  went,  for  we  had  reach' d  the  Philadelphia  side. 
The  hour  was  fine  and  mild,  the  bright  half-moon  shining;  Venus, 
with  excess  of  splendor,  just  setting  in  the  west,  and  the  great  Scorpion 
rearing  its  length  more  than  half  up  in  the  southeast.  As  I  cross' d 
leisurely  for  an  hour  in  the  pleasant  night-scene,  my  young  friend  s 
words  brought  up  quite  a  string  of  reminiscences. 

I  commenced  when  I  was  but  a  boy  of  eleven  or  twelve  writing 
sentimental  bits  for  the  old  ««  Long  Island  Patriot,"  in  Brooklyn  ;  this 
was  about  1832.  Soon  after,  I  had  a  piece  or  two  in  George  P. 
Morris's  then  celebrated  and  fashionable  "Mirror,"  of  New  York 
city.  I  remember  with  what  half-suppress' d  excitement  I  used^to 
watch  for  the  big,  fat,  red-faced,  slow-moving,  very  old  English 
carrier  who  distributed  the  "  Mirror"  in  Brooklyn;  and  when  I  got 
one,  opening  and  cutting  the  leaves  with  trembling  fingers.  How  it 
made  my  heart  double-beat  to  see  my  piece  on  the  pretty  white  paper, 
in  nice  type. 

My  first  real  venture  was  the  "  Long  Islander,"  in  my  own  beauti 
ful  town  of  Huntington,  in  1839.      I  was  about  twenty  years  old. 
had  been  teaching  country  school  for  two  or  three  years  in  various 
parts  of  Suffolk  and  Queens  counties,  but  liked  printing  ;   had  been  at 


i88  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

it  while  a  lad,  learn' d  the  trade  of  compositor,  and  was  encouraged  ^o 
start  a  paper  in  the  region  where  I  was  born.  I  went  to  New  York, 
bought  a  press  and  types,  hired  some  little  help,  but  did  most  of  the 
work  myself,  including  the  press-work.  Everything  seem'd  turning- 
out  well ;  (only  my  own  restlessness  prevented  me  gradually  establish 
ing  a  permanent  property  there.)  I  bought  a  good  horse,  and  every 
week  went  all  round  the  country  serving  my  papers,  devoting  one  day 
and  night  to  it.  I  never  had  happier  jaunts  —  going  over  to  south 
side,  to  Babylon,  .  down  the  south  road,  across  to  Smithtown  and 
Comae,  and  back  home.  The  experiences  of  those  jaunts,  the  dear 
old-fashion' d  farmers  and  their  wives,  the  stops  by  the  hay-fields,  the 
hospitality,  nice  dinners,  occasional  evenings,  the  girls,  the  rides  through 
the  brush,  come  up  in  my  memory  to  this  day. 

I  next  went  to  the  "Aurora"  daily  in  New  York  city  —  a  sort 
of  free  lance.  Also  wrote  regularly  for  the  "Tattler,"  an  evening 
paper.  With  these  and  a  little  outside  work  I  was  occupied  off  and 
on,  until  I  went  to  edit  the  "  Brooklyn  Eagle,"  where  for  two  years 
I  had  one  of  the  pleasantest  sits  of  my  life  —  a  good  owner,  good  pay, 
and  easy  work  and  hours.  The  troubles  in  the  Democratic  party 
broke  forth  about  those  times  (1848-' 49)  and  I  split  off  with  the 
radicals,  which  led  to  rows  with  the  boss  and  "the  party,"  and  I 
lost  my  place. 

Being  now  out  of  a  job,  I  was  offer' d  impromptu,  (it  happen' d  be 
tween  the  acts  one  night  in  the  lobby  of  the  old  Broadway  theatre 
near  Pearl  street,  New  York  city,)  a  good  chance  to  go  down  to  New 
Orleans  on  the  staff  of  the  "Crescent,"  a  daily  to  be  started  there 
with  plenty  of  capital  behind  it.  One  of  the  owners,  who  was  north 
buying  material,  met  me  walking  in  the  lobby,  and  though  that  was 
our  first  acquaintance,  after  fifteen  minutes'  talk  (and  a  drink)  we  made 
a  formal  bargain,  and  he  paid  me  two  hundred  dollars  down  to  bind 
the  contract  and  bear  my  expenses  to  New  Orleans.  I  started  two 
days  afterwards  ;  had  a  good  leisurely  time,  as  the  paper  wasn't  to  be 
out  in  three  weeks.  I  enjoy' d  my  journey  and  Louisiana  life  much. 
Returning  to  Brooklyn  a  year  or  two  afterward  I  started  the  "  Free 
man,"  first  as  a  weekly,  then  daily.  Pretty  soon  the  secession  war 
broke  out,  and  I,  too,  got  drawn  in  the  current  southward,  and  spent 
the  following  three  years  there,  (as  memorandized  preceding.) 

Besides  starting  them  as  aforementioned,  I  have  had  to  do,  one  time 
or  another,  during  my  life,  with  a  long  list  of  papers,  at  divers  places, 
sometimes  under  queer  circumstances.  During  the  war,  the  hospitals 
at  Washington,  among  other  means  of  amusement,  printed  a  little  sheet 
among  themselves,  surrounded  by  wounds  and  death,  the  "Armory 
Square  Gazette,"  to  which  I  contributed.  The  same  long  afterward, 
casually,  to  a  paper —  I  think  it  was  call'd  the  "  Jimplecute  "  — out  in 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  189 

Colorado  where  I  stopp'd  at  the  time.  When  I  was  in  Quebec  prov 
ince,  in  Canada,  in  1880,  I  went  into  the  queerest  little  old  French 
printing-office  near  Tadousac.  It  was  far  more  primitive  and  ancient 
than  my  Camden  friend  William  Kurtz's  place  up  on  Federal  street.  I 
remember,  as  a  youngster,  several  characteristic  old  printers  of  a  kind 
hard  to  be  seen  these  days. 

THE  GREAT  UN-  My  thoughts  went  floating  on  vast  and 
REST  OF  WHICH  mystic  currents  as  I  sat  to-day  in  solitude 
WE  ARE  PART  and  half-shade  by  the  creek  —  returning 

mainly  to  two  principal  centres.      One  of 

my  cherish' d  themes  for  a  never- achiev'd  poem  has  been  the  two  im 
petuses  of  man  and  the  universe  —  in  the  latter,  creation's  incessant 
unrest,*  exfoliation,  (Darwin's  evolution,  I  suppose.)  Indeed,  what 
is  Nature  but  change,  in  all  its  visible,  and  still  more  its  invisible  proc 
esses  ?  Or  what  is  humanity  in  its  faith,  love,  heroism,  poetry,  even 
morals,  but  emotion  ? 

BY  EMERSON'S  May  6, '82. — We    stand  by  Emerson's 

GRAVE  new-made  grave  without  sadness  —  indeed 

a  solemn  joy  and  faith,  almost  hauteur  — 
our  soul-benison  no  mere 

"Warrior,  rest,  thy  task  is  done," 

for  one  beyond  the  warriors  of  the  world  lies  surely  symbol!' d  here. 
A  just  man,  poised  on  himself,  all-loving,  all-inclosing,  and  sane  and 
clear  as  the  sun.  Nor  does  it  seem  so  much  Emerson  himself  we 
are  here  to  honor  —  it  is  conscience,  simplicity,  culture,  humanity's 
attributes  at  their  best,  yet  applicable  if  need  be  to  average  affairs, 
and  eligible  to  all.  So  used  are  we  to  suppose  a  heroic  death  can 
only  come  from  out  of  battle  or  storm,  or  mighty  personal  contest, 
or  amid  dramatic  incidents  or  danger,  (have  we  not  been  taught  so 

*  "Fifty  thousand  years  ago  the  constellation  of  the  Great  Bear  or 
Dipper  was  a  starry  cross  ;  a  hundred  thousand  years  hence  the  imaginary 
Dipper  will  be  upside  down,  and  the  stars  which  form  the -bowl  and  handle 
will  have  changed  places.  The  misty  nebulae  are  moving,  and  besides  are 
whirling  around  in  great  spirals,  some  one  way,  some  another.  Every 
molecule  of  matter  in  the  whole  universe  is  swinging  to  and  fro ;  every 
particle  of  ether  which  fills  space  is  in  jelly-like  vibration.  Light  is  one 
kind  of  motion,  heat  another,  electricity  another,  magnetism  another,  sound 
another.  Every  human  sense  is  the  result  of  motion  ;  every  perception, 
every  thought  is  but  motion  of  the  molecules  of  the  brain  translated  by  that 
incomprehensible  thing  we  call  mind.  The  processes  of  growth,  of  exist 
ence,  of  decay,  whether  in  worlds,  or  in  the  minutest  organisms,  are  but 
motion." 


190  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

for  ages  by  all  the  plays  and  poems  ?)  that  few  even  of  those  who 
most  sympathizingly  mourn  Emerson*  s  late  departure  will  fully  appre 
ciate  the  ripen*  d  grandeur  of  that  event,  with  its  play  of  calm  and 
fitness,  like  evening  light  on  the  sea. 

How  I  shall  henceforth  dwell  on  the  blessed  hours  when,  not  long 
since,  I  saw  that  benignant  face,  the  clear  eyes,  the  silently  smiling 
mouth,  the  form  yet  upright  in  its  great  age  —  to  the  very  last,  with 
so  much  spring  and  cheeriness,  and  such  an  absence  of  decrepitude, 
that  even  the  term  venerable  hardly  seem'd  fitting. 

Perhaps  the  life  now  rounded  and  completed  in  its  mortal  develop 
ment,  and  which  nothing  can  change  or  harm  more,  has  its  most 
illustrious  halo,  not  in  its  splendid  intellectual  or  esthetic  products, 
but  as  forming  in  its  entirety  one  of  the  few  (alas  !  how  few  !)  per 
fect  and  flawless  excuses  for  being,  of  the  entire  literary  class. 

We  can  say,  as  Abraham  Lincoln  at  Gettysburg,  It  is  not  we  who 
come  to  consecrate  the  dead  —  we  reverently  come  to  receive,  if  so  it 
may  be,  some  consecration  to  ourselves  and  daily  work  from  him. 

AT  PRESENT  WRIT-  May  31,  '82.  —  "From  to-day  I  enter 
ING  —  PERSONAL  upon  my  64th  year.  The  paralysis  that 
A  letter  to  a  German  friend —  first  affected  me  nearly  ten  years  ago,  has 
extract  since  remain*  d,  with  varying  course  — 

seems  to  have  settled  quietly  down,  and 

will  probably  continue.  I  easily  tire,  am  very  clumsy,  cannot  walk 
far  ;  but  my  spirits  are  first-rate.  I  go  around  in  public  almost  every 
day  —  now  and  then  take  long  trips,  by  railroad  or  boat,  hundreds  of 
miles  —  live  largely  in  the  open  air  —  am  sunburnt  and  stout,  (weigh 
190)  — keep  up  my  activity  and  interest  in  life,  people,  progress,  and 
the  questions  of  the  day.  About  two-thirds  of  the  time  I  am  quite 
comfortable.  What  mentality  I  ever  had  remains  entirely  unaffected ; 
though  physically  I  am  a  half-paralytic,  and  likely  to  be  so,  long  as  I 
live.  But  the  principal  object  of  my  life  seems  to  have  been  accom 
plish*  d —  I  have  the  most  devoted  and  ardent  of  friends,  and  affection 
ate  relatives — and  of  enemies  I  really  make  no  account.*' 

AFTER  TRYING  A  I  tried  to  read  a  beautifully  printed  and 
CERTAIN  BOOK  scholarly  volume  on  "the  Theory  of 

Poetry,**   received  by  mail  this  morning 

from  England  —  but  gave  it  up  at  last  for  a  bad  job.  Here  are  some 
capricious  pencillings  that  follow*  d,  as  I  find  them  in  my  notes: 

In  youth  and  maturity  Poems  are  charged  with  sunshine  and  varied 
pomp  of  day  ;  but  as  the  soul  more  and  more  takes  precedence,  (the 
sensuous  still  included,)  the  Dusk  becomes  the  poet's  atmosphere.  I 
too  have  sought,  and  ever  seek,  the  brilliant  sun,  and  make  my  songs 


SPECIMEN   DAYS  191 

according.      But  as  I  grow  old,  the  half-lights  of  evening  are  far  more 
to  me. 

The  play  of  Imagination,  with  the  sensuous  objects  of  Nature  for 
symbols  and  Faith  —  with  Love  and  Pride  as  the  unseen  impetus  and 
moving-power  of  all,  make  up  the  curious  chess-game  of  a  poem. 

Common  teachers  or  critics  are  always  asking  "What  does  it 
mean  ?"  Symphony  of  fine  musician,  or  sunset,  or  sea- waves  rolling 
up  the  beach  —  what  do  they  mean  ?  Undoubtedly  in  the  most  subtle- 
elusive  sense  they  mean  something  —  as  love  does,  and  religion  does, 
and  the  best  poem  ; — but  who  shall  fathom  and  define  those  meanings? 
(I  do  not  intend  this  as  a  warrant  for  wildness  and  frantic  escapades  — 
but  to  justify  the  soul's  frequent  joy  in  what  cannot  be  defined  to  the 
intellectual  part,  or  to  calculation. ) 

At  its  best,  poetic  lore  is  like  what  may  be  heard  of  conversation  in 
the  dusk,  from  speakers  far  or  hid,  of  which  we  get  only  a  few  broken 
murmurs.  What  is  not  gather' d  is  far  more  —  perhaps  the  main  thing. 

Grandest  poetic  passages  are  only  to  be  taken  at  free  removes,  as 
we  sometimes  look  for  stars  at  night,  not  by  gazing  directly  toward 
them,  but  off  one  side. 

(To  a  poetic  student  and  friend.) — I  only  seek  to  put  you  in  rap 
port.  Your  own  brain,  heart,  evolution,  must  not  only  understand 
the  matter,  but  largely  supply  it. 

FINAL    CONFES-  So   draw  near  their  end  these   garrulous 

SIGNS  —  LITERARY  notes.  There  have  doubtless  occurr'd 
TESTS  some  repetitions,  technical  errors  in  the 

consecutiveness  of  dates,  in  the  minutiae  of 

botanical,  astronomical,  &c.,  exactness,  and  perhaps  elsewhere;  —  for 
in  gathering  up,  writing,  peremptorily  dispatching  copy,  this  hot 
weather,  (last  of  July  and  through  August,  '82,)  and  delaying  not 
the  printers,  I  have  had  to  hurry  along,  no  time  to  spare.  But  in  the 
deepest  veracity  of  all  —  in  reflections  of  objects,  scenes,  Nature's  out 
pourings,  to  my  senses  and  receptivity,  as  they  seem'd  to  me  —  in  the 
work  of  giving  those  who  care  for  it,  some  authentic  glints,  specimen- 
days  of  my  life  —  and  in  the  bona  fide  spirit  and  relations,  from  author 
to  reader,  on  all  the  subjects  design' d,  and  as  far  as  they  go,  I  feel  to 
make  unmitigated  claims. 

The  synopsis  of  my  early  life,  Long  Island,  New  York  city,  and  so 
forth,  and  the  diary-jottings  in  the  Secession  war,  tell  their  own  story. 
My  plan  in  starting  what  constitutes  most  of  the  middle  of  the  book, 
was  originally  for  hints  and  data  of  a  Nature-poem  that  should  carry 
one's  experiences  a  few  hours,  commencing  at  noon-flush,  and  so 
through  the  after-part  of  the  day  —  I  suppose  led  to  such  idea  by  my 
own  life-afternoon  now  arrived.  But  I  soon  found  I  could  move  at 
14 


192  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

more  ease,  by  giving  the  narrative  at  first  hand.  (Then  there  is  a 
humiliating  lesson  one  learns,  in  serene  hours,  of  a  fine  day  or  night. 
Nature  seems  to  look  on  all  fixed-up  poetry  and  art  as  something 
almost  impertinent.) 

Thus  I  went  on,  years  following,  various  seasons  and  areas,  spinning 
forth  my  thought  beneath  the  night  and  stars,  (or  as  I  was  confined  to 
my  room  by  half-sickness,)  or  at  midday  looking  out  upon  the  sea,  or 
far  north  steaming  over  the  Saguenay's  black  breast,  jotting  all  down 
in  the  loosest  sort  of  chronological  order,  and  here  printing  from  my 
impromptu  notes,  hardly  even  the  seasons  group' d  together,  or  any 
thing  corrected  —  so  afraid  of  dropping  what  smack  of  outdoors  or  sun 
or  starlight  might  cling  to  the  lines,  I  dared  not  try  to  meddle  with  or 
smooth  them.  Every  now  and  then,  (not  often,  but  for  a  foil,)  I 
carried  a  book  in  my  pocket  —  or  perhaps  tore  out  from  some  broken 
or  cheap  edition  a  bunch  of  loose  leaves;  most  always  had  something 
of  the  sort  ready,  but  only  took  it  out  when  the  mood  demanded.  In 
that  way,  utterly  out  of  reach  of  literary  conventions,  I  re-read  many 
authors. 

I  cannot  divest  my  appetite  of  literature,  yet  I  find  myself  eventu 
ally  trying  it  all  by  Nature  — first  premises  many  call  it,  but  really 
the  crowning  results  of  all,  laws,  tallies  and  proofs.  (Has  it  never 
occur* d  to  any  one  how  the  last  deciding  tests  applicable  to  a  book  are 
entirely  outside  of  technical  and  grammatical  ones,  and  that  any  truly 
first-class  production  has  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  rules  and 
calibres  of  ordinary  critics  ?  or  the  bloodless  chalk  of  Allibone's  Dic 
tionary  ?  I  have  fancied  the  ocean  and  the  daylight,  the  mountain 
and  the  forest,  putting  their  spirit  in  a  judgment  on  our  books.  I 
have  fancied  some  disembodied  human  soul  giving  its  verdict.) 

NATURE  AND  DE-  /    Democracy  most  of  all   affiliates  with  the 

MOCRACY  —  MO—         open  air,  is  sunny  and  hardy  and  sane  only 

RALITY  with   Nature-*—  just  as   much  as  Art   is. 

Something  is  required  to  temper  both  — 

to  check  them,  restrain  them  from  excess,  morbidity.  I  have  wanted, 
before  departure,  to  bear  special  testimony  to  a  very  old  lesson  and 
requisite.  American  Democracy,  in  its  myriad  personalities,  in  fac 
tories,  work-shops,  stores,  offices  —  through  the ^  dense  streets  and  houses 
of  clHe~s7~^iTxl-«ll»^heif  manifold  sophisticated  life  —  must  eithor-Jbe 
fibred,  vitalized,  by  regular  contact  with  out-door  light  and  air  and 
growths,  farm-scenes,  animals,  fields,  trees,  birds,  sun-warmth  and 
free  skies,  or  it  will  certainly  dwindle  and  pale.  We  cannot  have 
grand  races  of'mcehanics,  wor^~pTOp!e7~anH  'commonalty,  (the  only 
specific  purpose  of  America,)  on  any  less  'terms.  I.  conceive -QjE.no 
flourishing  and  heroic  elements  of  Democracy  in  the  United  States,  or 


SPECIMEN  DAYS  193 

of  Democracy  maintaining  itself  at  all,  without  the  Nature-element 
forming  a  mam  part  —  to  be  its  health-element  and  beauty-element  — 
to  really  underlie  the  whole  politics,  sanity,  religion  and  art  of  the 
New  World. 

Finally,  the  morality:  "Virtue,"  said  Marcus  Aurelius,  "what 
is  it,  only  a  living  and  enthusiastic  sympathy  with  Nature?'*  Perhaps 
indeed  the  efforts  of  the  true  poets,  founders,  religions,  literatures,  all 
ages,  have  been,  and  ever  will  be,  our  time  and  times  to  come,  essen 
tially  the  same -r  to  bring  people  back  from  their  persistent  stray  ings  -^^ 
and  sickly  abstractions,  to  the  costless  average,  divine,  original 


concrete. 


COLLECT 


ONE  OR  TWO  INDEX  ITEMS 

THOUGH  the  ensuing  COLLECT  and  preceding  SPECIMEN  DAYS  are 
both  largely  from  memoranda  already  existing,  the  hurried  peremptory 
needs  of  copy  for  the  printers,  already  referr'd  to —  (the  musicians' 
story  of  a  composer  up  in  a  garret  rushing  the  middle  body  and  last 
of  his  score  together,  while  the  fiddlers  are  playing  the  first  parts  down 
in  the  concert-room) — of  this  haste,  while  quite  willing  to  get  the 
consequent  stimulus  of  life  and  motion,  I  am  sure  there  must  have 
resulted  sundry  technical  errors.  If  any  are  too  glaring  they  will  be 
corrected  in  a  future  edition. 

A  special  word  about  PIECES  IN  EARLY  YOUTH  at  the  end.  On 
jaunts  over  Long  Island,  as  boy  and  young  fellow,  nearly  half  a  cen 
tury  ago,  I  heard  of,  or  came  across  in  my  own  experience,  charac 
ters,  true  occurrences,  incidents,  which  I  tried  my  'prentice  hand  at 
recording — (I  was  then  quite  an  "abolitionist"  and  advocate  of 
the  "temperance"  and  "anti-capital-punishment"  causes) — and 
published  during  occasional  visits  to  New  York  city.  A  majority  of 
the  sketches  appear 'd  first  in  the  "  Democratic  Review,"  others  in 
the  "Columbian  Magazine,"  or  the  "American  Review,"  of  that 
period.  My  serious  wish  were  to  have  all  those  crude  and  boyish 
pieces  quietly  dropp'd  in  oblivion  —  but  to  avoid  the  annoyance  of 
their  surreptitious  issue,  (as  lately  announced,  from  outsiders,)  I  have, 
with  some  qualms,  tack'd  them  on  here.  A  Dough- Face  Song  came 
out  first  in  the  "  Evening  Post  "  —  Blood- Money,  and  Wounded  in  the 
House  of  Friends ,  in  the  "Tribune." 

Poetry  To-day  in  America,  &c.,  first  appeared  (under  the  name  of 
"  The  Poetry  of  the  Future")  in  "The  North  American  Review  "  for 
February,  1 88 1.  A  Memorandum  at  a  Venture,  in  same  periodical, 
some  time  afterward. 

Several  of  the  convalescent  out-door  scenes  and  literary  items,  pre 
ceding,  originally  appear' d  in  the  fortnightly  "  Critic,"  of  New 
York. 


DEMOCRATIC  VISTAS 


As  the  greatest  lessons  of  Nature  through  the  universe  are  perhaps 
the  lessons  of  variety  and  freedom,  the  same  present  the  greatest  les 
sons  also  in  New  World  politics  and  progress.  If  a  man  were  ask'd, 
for  instance,  the  distinctive  points  contrasting  modern  European  and 
American  political  and  other  life  with  the  old  Asiatic  cultus,  as  linger- 
ing-bequeath'd  yet  in  China  and  Turkey,  he  might  find  the  amount 
of  them  in  John  Stuart  Mill's  profound  essay  on  Liberty  in  the  future, 
where  he  demands  two  main  constituents,  or  sub-strata,  for  a  truly 
grand  nationality — 1st,  a  large  variety  of  character  —  and  zd,  full 
pTay'ToFlranwir  nature  to  expand  itself  in  numberless  and  even  con 
flicting  directions  —  (seems  to  be  for  general  humanity  much  like  the 
influences  that  make  up,  in  their  limitless  field,  that  perennial  health- 
action  of  the  air  we  call  the  weather  —  an  infinite  number  of  currents 
and  forces,  and  contributions,  and  temperatures,  and  cross-purposes, 
whose  ceaseless  play  of  counterpart  upon  counterpart  brings  constant 
restoration  and  vitality.)  With  this  thought — and  not  for  itself 
alone,  but  all  it  necessitates,  and  draws  after  it  —  let  me  begin  my 
speculations. 

America,  filling  the  present  with  greatest  deeds  and  problems, 
cheerfully  accepting  the  past,  including  feudalism,  (as,  indeed,  the 
present  is  but  the  legitimate  birth  of  the  past,  including  feudalism,) 
counts,  as  ^  reckon,  for  her  justification  and  success,  (for  who,  as  yet, 
dare  claim  success  ?)  almost  entirely  on  the  future.  Nor  is  that  hope 
unwarranted.  To-day,  ahead,  though  dimly  yet,  we  see,  in  vistas,  a 
copious,  sane,  gigantic  offspring.  For  our  New  World  I  consider  far 
less  important  for  what  it  has  done,  or  what  'it  is,  than  for  results  to_ 
£ome.  Sole  among  nationalities,  these  States  have  assumed  the  task 
to  put  in  forms  of  lasting  power  and  practicality,  on  areas  of  amplitude 
rivaling  the  operations  of  the  physical  kosmos,  the  moral  political 
speculations  of  ages,  long,  long  deferr'd,  the  democratic  republican 
principle,  and  the  theory  of  development  and  perfection  by  voluntary 
standards,  and  self-reliance.  Who  else,  indeed,  except  the  United 
States,  in  history,  so  far,  have  accepted  in  unwitting  faith,  and,  as  we 
now  see,  stand,  act  upon,  and  go  security  for,  these  things  ? 


198  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

But  preluding  no  longer,  let  me  strike  the  key-note  of  the  following 
strain.  First  premising  that,  though  the  passages  of  it  have  been 
written  at  widely  different  times,  (it  is,  in  fact,  a  collection  of  mem 
oranda,  perhaps  for  future  designers,  comprehenders,)  and  though  it 
may  be  open  to  the  charge  of  one  part  contradicting  another  —  for 
there  are  opposite  sides  to  the  great  question  of  democracy,  as  to 
every  great  question  —  I  feel  the  parts  harmoniously  blended  in  my 
own  realization  and  convictions,  and  present  them  to  be  read  only  in 
such  oneness,  each  page  and  each  claim  and  assertion  modified  and 
temper' d  by  the  others.  Bear  in  mind,  too,  that  they  are  not  the 
result  of  studying  up  in  political  economy,  but  of  the  ordinary  sense, 
observing,  wandering  among  men,  these  States,  these  stirring  years  of 
war  and  peace.  I  will  not  gloss  over  the  appaling  dangers  of  uni 
versal  suffrage  in  the  United  States.  In  fact,  it  is  to  admit  and  face 
these  dangers  I  am  writing.  To  him  or  her  within  whose  thought 
rages  the  battle,  advancing,  retreating,  between  democracy's  convic 
tions,  aspirations,  and  the  people's  crudeness,  vice,  caprices,  I  mainly 
write  this  essay.  I  shall  use  the  words  America  and  democracy  as 
convertible  terms.  Not  an  ordinary  one  is  the  issue.  The  United 
States  are  destined  either  to  surmount  the  gorgeous  history  of  feudal 
ism,  or  else  prove  the  most  tremendous  failure  of  time.  Not  the 
least  doubtful  am  I  on  any  prospects  of  their  material  success.  The 
triumphant  future  of  their  business,  geographic  and  productive  depart 
ments,  on  larger  scales  and  in  more  varieties  than  ever,  is  certain. 
In  those  respects  the  republic  must  soon  (if  she  does  not  already) 
outstrip  all  examples  hitherto  afforded,  and  dominate  the  world.* 

Admitting  all  this,  with  the  priceless  value  of  our  political  institutions, 
general  suffrage,  (and  fully  acknowledging  the  latest,  widest  opening  of 
the  doors,)  I  say  that,  far  deeper  than  these,  what  finally  and  only  is 
to  make  of  our  western  world  a  nationality  superior  to  any  hither 
known,  and  out-topping  the  past,  must  be  vigorous,  yet  unsuspected 

*  "  From  a  territorial  area  of  less  than  nine  hundred  thousand  square 
miles,  the  Union  has  expanded  into  over  four  millions  and  a  half —  fifteen 
times  larger  than  that  of  Great  Britain  and  France  combined  —  with  a 
shore-line,  including  Alaska,  equal  to  the  entire  circumference  of  the  earth, 
and  with  a  domain  within  these  lines  far  wider  than  that  of  the  Romans  in 
their  proudest  days  of  conquest  and  renown.  With  a  river,  lake,  and 
coastwise  commerce  estimated  at  over  two  thousand  millions  of  dollars  per 
year ;  with  a  railway  traffic  of  four  to  six  thousand  millions  per  year,  and 
the  annual  domestic  exchanges  of  the  country  running  up  to  nearly  ten 
thousand  millions  per  year  j  with  over  two  thousand  millions  of  dollars  in 
vested  in  manufacturing,  mechanical,  and  mining  industry  j  with  over  five 
hundred  millions  of  acres  of  land  in  actual  occupancy,  valued,  with  their 
appui  tenances,  at  over  seven  thousand  millions  of  dollars,  and  producing 


COLLECT  199 

Literatures,  perfect  personalities  and  sociologies,  original,  transcendental, 
and  expressing  (what,  in  highest  sense,  are  not  yet  express' d  at 
all,)  democracy  and  the  modern.  With  these,  and  out  of  these,  I 
promulge  new  races  of  Teachers,  and  of  perfect  Women,  indispensa 
ble  to  endow  the  birth-stock  of  a  New  World.  For  feudalism,  caste,  • 
the  ecclesiastic  traditions,  though  palpably  retreating  from  political 
institutions,  still  hold  essentially,  by  their  spirit,  even  in  this  country, 
entire  possession  of  the  more  important  fields,  indeed  the  very  subsoil, 
of  education,  and  of  social  standards  and  literature. 

I  say  that  democracy  can  never  prove  itself  beyond  cavil,  until  it 
founds  and  luxuriantly  grows  its  own  forms  of  art,  poems,  schools, 
theology,  displacing  all  that  exists,  or  that  has  been  produced  any 
where  in  the  past,  under  opposite  influences.  It  is  curious  to  me  that 
while  so  many  voices,  pens,  minds,  in  the  press,  lecture-rooms,  in  our 
Congress,  &c.,  are  discussing  intellectual  topics,  pecuniary  dangers, 
legislative  problems,  the  suffrage,  tariff  and  labor  questions,  and  the 
various  business  and  benevolent  needs  of  America,  with  propositions, 
remedies,  often  worth  deep  attention,  there  is  one  need,  a  hiatus  the 
profoundest,  that  no  eye  seems  to  perceive,  no  voice  to  state.  Our 
fundamental  want  to-day  in  the  United  States,  with  closest,  amplest 

annually  crops  valued  at  over  three  thousand  millions  of  dollars  ;  with  a 
realm  which,  if  the  density  of  Belgium's  population  were  possible,  would 
be  vast  enough  to  include  all  the  present  inhabitants  of  the  world  ;  and  with 
equal  rights  guaranteed  to  even  the  poorest  and  humblest  of  our  forty  mil 
lions  of  people  —  we  can,  with  a  manly  pride  akin  to  that  which  distin 
guish' d  the  palmiest  days  of  Rome,  claim,"  &c.,  &c.,  %K.— Vice-President 
Col/ax's  Speech,  July  4,  1870. 

LATER  —  London  "Times,"  (Weekly,)  June  23,  '82. 

"The  wonderful  wealth-producing  power  of  the  United  States  defies 
and  sets  at  naught  the  grave  drawbacks  of  a  mischievous  protective  tariff, 
and  has  already  obliterated,  almost  wholly,  the  traces  of  the  greatest  of 
modern  civil  wars.  What  is  especially  remarkable  in  the  present  develop 
ment  of  American  energy  and  success  is  its  wide  and  equable  distribution. 
North  and  south,  east  and  west,  on  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic  and  the 
Pacific,  along  the  chain  of  the  great  lakes,  in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi, 
and  on  the  coasts  of  the  gulf  of  Mexico,  the  creation  of  wealth  and  the  in 
crease  of  population  are  signally  exhibited.  It  is  quite  true,  as  has  been 
shown  by  the  recent  apportionment  of  population  in  the  House  of  Repre 
sentatives,  that  some  sections  of  the  Union  have  advanced,  relatively  to  the 
rest,  in  an  extraordinary  and  unexpected  degree.  But  this  does  not  imply 
that  the  States  which  have  gain'd  no  additional  representatives  or  have  act 
ually  lost  some  have  been  stationary  or  have  receded.  The  fact  is  that  the 
present  tide  of  prosperity  has  risen  so  high  that  it  has  overflow' d  all  barriers, 
and  has  fill'd  up  the  back-waters,  and  establish' d  something  like  an 
approach  to  uniform  success." 


200  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

reference  to  present  conditions,  and  to  the  future,  is  of  a  class,  and  the 
clear  idea  of  a  class,  of  native  authors,  literatuses,  far  different,  far 
higher  in  grade  than  any  yet  known,  sacerdotal,  modern,  fit  to  cope 
with  our  occasions,  lands,  permeating  the  whole  mass  of  American 
mentality,  taste,  belief,  breathing  into  it  a  new  breath  of  life,  giving  it 
decision,  affecting  politics  far  more  than  the  popular  superficial  suffrage, 
with  results  inside  and  underneath  the  elections  of  Presidents  or  Con 
gresses —  radiating,  begetting  appropriate  teachers,  schools,  manners, 
and,  as  its  grandest  result,  accomplishing,  (what  neither  the  schools 
nor  the  churches  and  their  clergy  have  hitherto  accomplish' d,  and 
without  which  this  nation  will  no  more  stand,  permanently,  soundly, 
than  a  house  will  stand  without  a  substratum,)  a  religious  and  moral 
character  beneath  the  political  and  productive  and  intellectual  bases  of 
the  States.  For  know  you  not,  dear,  earnest  reader,  that  the  people 
of  our  land  may  all  read  and  write,  and  may  all  possess  the  right  to 
vote  —  and  yet  the  main  things  may  be  entirely  lacking? —  (and  this 
to  suggest  them.) 

View'd,  to-day,  from  a  point  of  view  sufficiently  over-arching,  the 
problem  of  humanity  all  over  the  civilized  world  is  social  and  religious, 
and  is  to  be  finally  met  and  treated  by  literature.  The  priest  departs, 
the  divine  literatus  comes.  Never  was  anything  more  wanted  than, 
to-day,  and  here  in  the  States,  the  poet  of  the  modern  is  wanted,  or 
the  great  literatus  of  the  modern.  At  all  times,  perhaps,  the  central 
point  in  any  nation,  and  that  whence  it  is  itself  really  sway'd  the  most, 
and  whence  it  sways  others,  is  its  national  literature,  especially  its 
archetypal  poems.  Above  all  previous  lands,  a  great  original  literature 
is  surely  to  become  the  justification  and  reliance,  (in  some  respects  the 
sole  reliance,)  of  American  democracy. 

Few  are  aware  how  the  great  literature  penetrates  all,  gives  hue  to 
all,  shapes  aggregates  and  individuals,  and,  after  subtle  ways,  with 
irresistible  power,  constructs,  sustains,  demolishes  at  will.  Why 
tower,  in  reminiscence,  above  all  the  nations  of  the  earth,  two  special 
lands,  petty  in  themselves,  yet  inexpressibly  gigantic,  beautiful,  colum 
nar  ?  Immortal  Judah  lives,  and  Greece  immortal  lives,  in  a  couple 
of  poems. 

Nearer  than  this.  It  is  not  generally  realized,  but  it  is  true,  as  the 
genius  of  Greece,  and  all  the  sociology,  personality,  politics  and 
religion  of  those  wonderful  states,  resided  in  their  literature  or  esthetics, 
that  what  was  afterwards  the  main  support  of  European  chivalry,  the 
feudal,  ecclesiastical,  dynastic  world  over  there — forming  its  osseous 
structure,  holding  it  together  for  hundreds,  thousands  of  years,  preserv 
ing  its  flesh  and  bloom,  giving  it  form,  decision,  rounding  it  out,  and 
so  saturating  it  in  the  conscious  and  unconscious  blood,  breed,  belief,  and 
intuitions  of  men,  that  it  still  prevails  powerful  to  this  day,  in  defiance 


COLLECT  201 

of  the  mighty  changes  of  time  —  was  its  literature,  permeating  to  the 
very  marrow,  especially  that  major  part,  its  enchanting  songs,  ballads, 
and  poems.* 

To  the  ostent  of  the  senses  and  eyes,  I  know,  the  influences  which 
stamp  the  world's  history  are  wars,  uprisings  or  downfalls  of  dynasties, 
changeful  movements  of  trade,  important  inventions,  navigation,  mili 
tary  or  civil  governments,  advent  of  powerful  personalities,  conquerors, 
&c.  These  of  course  play  their  part ;  yet,  it  may  be,  a  single  new 
thought,  imagination,  abstract  principle,  even  literary  style,  fit  for  the 
time,  put  in  shape  by  some  great  literatus,  and  projected  among  man 
kind,  may  duly  cause  changes,  growths,  removals,  greater  than  the 
longest  and  bloodiest  war,  or  the  most  stupendous  merely  political, 
dynastic,  or  commercial  overturn. 

In  short,  as,  though  it  may  not  be  realized,  it  is  strictly  true,  that  a 
few  first-class  poets,  philosophs,  and  authors,  have  substantially  settled 
and  given  status  to  the  entire  religion,  education,  law,  sociology,  &c., 
of  the  hitherto  civilized  world,  by  tinging  and  often  creating  the  at 
mospheres  out  of  which  they  have  arisen,  such  also  must  stamp,  and 
more  than  ever  stamp,  the  interior  and  real  democratic  construction  of 
this  American  continent,  to-day,  and  days  to  come.  Remember  also 
this  fact  of  difference,  that,  while  through  the  antique  and  through  the 
medieval  ages,  highest  thoughts  and  ideals  realized  themselves,  and 
their  expression  made  its  way  by  other  arts,  as  much  as,  or  even 
more  than  by,  technical  literature,  (not  open  to  the  mass  of  persons, 
or  even  to  the  majority  of  eminent  persons,)  such  literature  in  our 
day  and  for  current  purposes,  is  not  only  more  eligible  than  all  the 
other  arts  put  together,  but  has  become  the  only  general  means  of 
morally  influencing  the  world.  Painting,  sculpture,  and  the  dramatic 
theatre,  it  would  seem,  no  longer  play  an  indispensable  or  even  im 
portant  part  in  the  workings  and  mediumship  of  intellect,  utility,  or 
even  high  esthetics.  Architecture  remains,  doubtless  with  capacities, 
and  a  real  future.  Then  music,  the  combiner,  nothing  more  spiritual, 

*See,  for  hereditaments,  specimens,  Walter  Scott's  Border  Minstrelsy, 
Percy's  collection,  Ellis' s  early  English  Metrical  Romances,  the  European 
continental  poems  of  Walter  of  Aquitania,  and  the  Nibelungen,  of  pagan 
stock,  but  monkish-feudal  redaction  ;  the  history  of  the  Troubadours,  by 
Fauriel  ;  even  the  far-back  cumbrous  old  Hindu  epics,  as  indicating  the 
Asian  eggs  out  of  which  European  chivalry  was  hatch' d  ;  Ticknor's  chap 
ters  on  the  Cid,  and  on  the  Spanish  poems  and  poets  of  Calderon's  time. 
Then  always,  and,  of  course,  as  the  superbest  poetic  culmination-expression 
of  feudalism,  the  Shaksperean  dramas,  in  the  attitudes,  dialogue,  characters, 
&c  of  the  princes,  lords  and  gentlemen,  the  pervading  atmosphere,  the 
implied  and  express' d  standard  of  manners,  the  high  port  and  proud  stomach, 
the  regal  embroidery  of  style,  &c. 


202  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

nothing  more  sensuous,  a  god,  yet  completely  human,  advances,  pre 
vails,  holds  highest  place ;  supplying  in  certain  wants  and  quarters  what 
nothing  else  could  supply.  Yet  in  the  civilization  of  to-day  it  is  un 
deniable  that,  over  all  the  arts,  literature  dominates,  serves  beyond  all 
—  shapes  the  character  of  church  and  school  —  or,  at  any  rate,  is 
capable  of  doing  so.  Including  the  literature  of  science,  its  scope  is 
indeed  unparallePd. 

Before  proceeding  further,  it  were  perhaps  well  to  discriminate  on 
certain  points.  Literature  tills  its  crops  in  many  fields,  and  some  may 
flourish,  while  others  lag.  What  I  say  in  these  Vistas  has  its  main 
bearing  on  imaginative  literature,  especially  poetry,  the  stock  of  all. 
In  the  department  of  science,  and  the  specialty  of  journalism,  there 
appear,  in  these  States,  promises,  perhaps  fulfilments,  of  highest  ear 
nestness,  reality,  and  life.  These,  of  course,  are  modern.  But  in 
the  region  of  imaginative,  spinal  and  essential  attributes,  something 
equivalent  to  creation  is,  for  our  age  and  lands,  imperatively  demanded. 
For  not  only  is  it  not  enough  that  the  new  blood,  new  frame  of  democ 
racy  shall  be  vivified  and  held  together  merely  by  political  means, 
superficial  suffrage,  legislation,  &c.,  but  it  is  clear  to  me  that,  unless  it 
goes  deeper,  gets  at  least  as  firm  and  as  warm  a  hold  in  men's  hearts, 
emotions  and  belief,  as,  in  their  days,  feudalism  or  ecclesiasticism,  and 
inaugurates  its  own  perennial  sources,  welling  from  the  centre  forever, 
its  strength  will  be  defective,  its  growth  doubtful,  and  its  main  charm 
wanting.  I  suggest,  therefore,  the  possibility,  should  some  two  or 
three  really  original  American  poets,  (perhaps  artists  or  lecturers,) 
arise,  mounting  the  horizon  like  planets,  stars  of  the  first  magnitude, 
that,  from  their  eminence,  fusing  contributions,  races,  far  localities, 
&c.,  together,  they  would  give  more  compaction  and  more  moral 
identity,  (the  quality  to-day  most  needed,)  to  these  States,  than  all 
its  Constitutions,  legislative  and  judicial  ties,  and  all  its  hitherto  politi 
cal,  warlike,  or  materialistic  experiences.  As,  for  instance,  there 
could  hardly  happen  anything  that  would  more  serve  the  States,  with 
all  their  variety  of  origins,  their  diverse  climes,  cities,  standards,  &c., 
than  possessing  an  aggregate  of  heroes,  characters,  exploits,  sufferings, 
prosperity  or  misfortune,  glory  or  disgrace,  common  to  all,  typical  of 
all  —  no  less,  but  even  greater  would  it  be  to  possess  the  aggregation 
of  a  cluster  of  mighty  poets,  artists,  teachers,  fit  for  us,  national  ex- 
pressers,  comprehending  and  effusing  for  the  men  and  women  of  the 
States,  what  is  universal,  native,  common  to  all,  inland  and  seaboard, 
northern  and  southern.  The  historians  say  of  ancient  Greece,  with 
her  ever-jealous  autonomies,  cities,  and  states,  that  the  only  positive 
unity  she  ever  own'd  or  receiv'd,  was  the  sad  unity  of  a  common  sub 
jection,  at  the  last,  to  foreign  conquerors.  Subjection,  aggregation  of 
that  sort,  is  impossible  to  America  j  but  the  fear  of  conflicting  and 


COLLECT  203 

irreconcilable  interiors,  and  the  lack  of  a  common  skeleton,  knitting  all 
close,  continually  haunts  me.  Or,  if  it  does  not,  nothing  is  plainer 
than  'the  need,  a  long  period  to  come,  of  a  fusion  of  the  States  into  the 
only  reliable  identity,  the  moral  and  artistic  one.  For,  I  say,  the 
true  nationality  of  the  States,  the  genuine  union,  when  we  come  to  a 
moral  crisis,  is,  and  is  to  be,  after  all,  neither  the  written  law,  nor, 
(as  is  generally  supposed,)  either  self-interest,  or  common  pecuniary 
or  material  objects  —  but  the  fervid  and  tremendous  IDEA,  melting 
everything  else  with  resistless  heat,  and  solving  all  lesser  and  definite 
distinctions  in  vast,  indefinite,  spiritual,  emotional  power. 

It  may  be  claim' d,  (and  I  admit  the  weight  of  the  claim,)  that 
common  and  general  worldly  prosperity,  and  a  populace  well-to-do, 
and  with  all  life's  material  comforts,  is  the  main  thing,  and  is  enough. 
It  may  be  argued  that  our  republic  is,  in  performance,  really  enacting 
to-day  the  grandest  arts,  poems,  &c.,  by  beating  up  the  wilderness 
into  fertile  farms,  and  in  her  railroads,  ships,  machinery,  &c.  And 
it  may  be  ask'd,  Are  these  not  better,  indeed,  for  America,  than  any 
utterances  even  of  greatest  rhapsode,  artist,  or  literatus  ? 

I  too  hail  those  achievements  with  pride  and  joy  :  then  answer  that 
the  soul  of  man  will  not  with  such  only  —  nay,  not  with  such  at  all  - 
be  finally  satisfied  ;  but  needs  what,    (standing  on  these  and  on  all 
things,  as  the  feet  stand  on  the  ground,)  is  address' d  to  the  loftiest,  to 

itself  alone. 

Out  of  such  considerations,  such  truths,  arises  for  treatment  in  these 
Vistas  the  important  question  of  character,  of  an  American  stock-per 
sonality,  with  literatures  and  arts  for  outlets  and  return-expressions, 
and,  of  course,  to  correspond,  within  outlines  common  to  all.  To 
these,  the  main  affair,  the  thinkers  of  the  United  States,  in  general  so 
acute,  have  either  given  feeblest  attention,  or  have  remain' d,  and  re 
main,  in  a  state  of  somnolence. 

For  my  part,  I  would  alarm  and  caution  even  the  political  and 
business  reader,  and  to  the  utmost  extent,  against  the  prevailing  delusion 
that  the  establishment  of  free  political  institutions,  and  plentiful  intel 
lectual  smartness,  with  general  good  order,  physical  plenty,  industry, 
&c.,  (desirable  and  precious  advantages  as  they  all  are,)  do,  of  them 
selves,  determine  and  yield  to  our  experiment  of  democracy  the  fruitage 
of  success.  With  such  advantages  at  present  fully,  or  almost  fully, 
possess' d  —  the  Union  just  issued,  victorious,  from  the  struggle  with 
the  only  foes  it  need  ever  fear,  (namely,  those  within  itself,  the 
interior  ones,)  and  with  unprecedented  materialistic  advancement - 
society,  in  these  States,  is  canker' d,  crude,  superstitious,  and  rotten. 
Political,  or  law-made  society  is,  and  private,  or  voluntary  society,  is 
also.  In  any  vigor,  the  element  of  the  moral  conscience,  the  most 


204  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

important,  the  verteber  to  State  or  man,  seems  to  me  either  entirely 
lacking,  or  seriously  enfeebled  or  ungrown. 

I  say  we  had  best  look  our  times  and  lands  searchingly  in  the  face, 
like  a  physician  diagnosing  some  deep  disease.  Never  was  there,  per 
haps,  more  hollowness  at  heart  than  at  present,  and  here  in  the  United 
States.  Genuine  belief  seems  to  have  left  us.  The  underlying  prin 
ciples  of  the  States  are  not  honestly  believ'd  in,  (for  all  this  hectic 
glow,  and  these  melo-dramatic  screamings,)  nor  is  humanity  itself 
believ'd  in.  What  penetrating  eye  does  not  everywhere  see  through 
the  mask  ?  The  spectacle  is  appaling.  We  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
hypocrisy  throughout.  The  men  believe  not  in  the  women,  nor  the 
f — wecien  in  the  men.  A  scornful  superciliousness  rules  in  literature. 
The  aim  of  all  the  litterateurs  is  to  find  something  to  make  fun  of.[  A 
lot  of  churches,  sects,  &c.,  the  most  dismal  phantasms  I  know,  usurp 
the  name  of  religion.  Conversation  is  a  mass  of  badinage.  From  de- 
— reit  in  the  spirit,  the  mother  of  all  false  deeds,  the  offspring  is  already 
incalculable.  An  acute  and  candid  person,  in  the  revenue  department 
in  Washington,  who  is  led  by  the  course  of  his  employment  to  regu 
larly  visit  the  cities,  north,  south  and  west,  to  investigate  frauds,  has 
talk'd  much  with  me  about  his  discoveries.  The  depravity  of  the 
business  classes  of  our  country  is  not  less  than  has  been  supposed,  but 
infinitely  greater.  The  official  services  of  America,  national,  state, 
and  municipal,  in  all  their  branches  and  departments,  except  the 
judiciary,  are  saturated  in  corruption,  bribery,  falsehood,  maladmin 
istration  ;  and  the  judiciary  is  tainted.  The  great  cities  reek  with 
respectable  as  much  as  non-respectable  robbery  and  scoundrelism.  In 
fashionable  life,  flippancy,  tepid  amours,  weak  infidelism,  small  aims, 
or  no  aims  at  all,  only  to  kill  time.  In  business,  (this  all-devouring 
modern  word,  business,)  the  one  sole  object  is,  by  any  means,  pecuni 
ary  gain.  The  magician's  serpent  in  the  fable  ate  up  all  the  other 
serpents  ;  and  money-making  is  our  magician's  serpent,  remaining  to- 
.day  sole  master  of  the  field.  The  best  class  we  show,  is  but  a  mob  of 
fashionably  dress' d  speculators  and  vulgarians.  True,  indeed,  behind 
this  fantastic  farce,  enacted  on  the  visible  stage  of  society,  solid  things 
and  stupendous  labors  are  to  be  discover' d,  existing  crudely  and  going 
on  in  the  background,  to  advance  and  tell  themselves  in  time.  Yet 
the  truths  are  none  the  less  terrible.  I  say  that  our  New  World 
democracy,  however  great  a  success  in  uplifting  the  masses  out  of  their 
sloughs,  in  materialistic  development,  products,  and  in  a  certain  highly- 
deceptive  superficial  popular  intellectuality,  is,  so  far,  an  almost  com 
plete  failure  in  its  social  aspects,  and  in  really  grand  religious,  moral, 
literary,  and  esthetic  results.  In  vain  do  we  march  with  unprecedented 
strides  to  empire  so  colossal,  outvying  the  antique,  beyond  Alexander's, 
beyond  the  proudest  sway  of  Rome.  In  vain  have  we  annex' d  Texas, 


COLLECT  205 

California,  Alaska,  and  reach  north  for  Canada  and  south  for  Cuba. 
It  is  as  if  we  were  somehow  being  endow* d  with  a  vast  and  more  and 
more  thoroughly-appointed  body,  and  then  left  with  little  or  no  soul. 

Let  me  illustrate  further,  as  I  write,  with  current  observations,  local 
ities,  &c.  The  subject  is  important,  and  will  bear  repetition.  After 
an  absence,  I  am  now  again  (September,  1870)  in  New  York  city 
and  Brooklyn,  on  a  few  weeks'  vacation.  The  splendor,  picturesque- 
ness,  and  oceanic  amplitude  and  rush  of  these  great  cities,  the  unsur- 
pass'd  situation,  rivers  and  bay,  sparkling  sea-tides,  costly  and  lofty 
new  buildings,  facades  of  marble  and  iron,  of  original  grandeur  and 
elegance  of  design,  with  the  masses  of  gay  color,  the  preponderance 
of  white  and  blue,  the  flags  flying,  the  endless  ships,  the  tumultuous 
streets,  Broadway,  the  heavy,  low,  musical  roar,  hardly  ever  inter 
mitted,  even  at  night;  the  jobbers'  houses,  the  rich  shops,  the 
wharves,  the  great  Central  Park,  and  the  Brooklyn  Park  of  hills,  (as  I 
wander  among  them  this  beautiful  fall  weather,  musing,  watching,  ab 
sorbing) —  the  assemblages  of  the  citizens  in  their  groups,  conversa 
tions,  trades,  evening  amusements,  or  along  the  by-quarters — these,  I 
say,  and  the  like  of  these,  completely  satisfy  my  senses  of  power,  ful 
ness,  motion,  &c.,  and  give  me,  through  such  senses  and  appetites,  and 
through  my  esthetic  conscience,  a  continued  exaltation  and  absolute 
fulfilment.  Always  and  more  and  more,  as  I  cross  the  East  and  North 
rivers,  the  ferries,  or  with  the  pilots  in  their  pilot-houses,  or  pass  an 
hour  in  Wall  street,  or  the  gold  exchange,  I  realize,  (if  we  must 
admit  such  partialisms,)  that  not  Nature  alone  is  great  in  her  fields  of 
freedom  and  the  open  air,  in  her  storms,  the  shows  of  night  and  day, 
the  mountains,  forests,  seas  —  but  in  the  artificial,  the  work  of  man 
too  is  equally  great  —  in  this  profusion  of  teeming  humanity  —  in 
these  ingenuities,  streets,  goods,  houses,  ships  —  these  hurrying, 
feverish,  electric  crowds  of  men,  their  complicated  business  genius, 
(not  least  among  the  geniuses,)  and  all  this  mighty,  many-threaded 
wealth  and  industry  concentrated  here. 

But  sternly  discarding,  shutting  our  eyes  to  the  glow  and  grandeur 
of  the  general  superficial  effect,  coming  down  to  what  is  of  the  only 
real  importance,  Personalities,  and  examining  minutely,  we  question, 
we  ask,  Are  there,  indeed,  men  here  worthy  the  name  ?  Are  there 
athletes?  Are  there  perfect  women,  to  match  the  generous  material 
luxuriance?  Is  there  a  pervading  atmosphere  of  beautiful  manners? 
Are  there  crops  of  fine  youths,  and  majestic  old  persons?  Are  there 
arts  worthy  freedom  and  a  rich  people?  Is  there  a  great  moral  and 
religious  civilization  —  the  only  justification  of  a  great  material  one? 
Confess  that  to  severe  eyes,  using  the  moral  microscope  upon  human 
ity,  a  sort  of  dry  and  flat  Sahara  appears,  these  cities,  crowded  with 
petty  grotesques,  malformations,  phantoms,  playing  meaningless  antics. 


206  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Confess  that  everywhere,  in  shop,  street,  church,  theatre,  bar-room, 
official  chair,  are  pervading  flippancy  and  vulgarity,  low  cunning,  infi 
delity —  everywhere  the  youth  puny,  impudent,  foppish,  prematurely 
ripe — everywhere  an  abnormal  libidinousness,  unhealthy  forms,  male, 
female,  painted,  padded,  dyed,  chignon' d,  muddy  complexions,  bad 
blood,  the  capacity  for  good  motherhood  deceasing  or  deceas'd,  shal 
low  notions  of  beauty,  with  a  range  of  manners,  or  rather  lack  of 
manners,  (considering  the  advantages  enjoy 'd,)  probably  the  meanest 
to  be  seen  in  the  world. * 

Of  all  this,  and  these  lamentable  conditions,  to  breathe  into  them 
the  breath  recuperative  of  sane  and  heroic  life,  I  say  a  new  founded 
literature,  not  merely  to  copy  and  reflect  existing  surfaces,  or  pander 
to  what  is  called  taste  —  not  only  to  amuse,  pass  away  time,  celebrate 
the  beautiful,  the  refined,  the  past,  or  exhibit  technical,  rhythmic,  or 
grammatical  dexterity  —  but  a  literature  underlying  life,  religious,  con 
sistent  with  science,  handling  the  elements  and  forces  with  competent 
power,  teaching  and  training  men — and,  as  perhaps  the  most  precious 
of  its  results,  achieving  the  entire  redemption  of  woman  out  of  these 
incredible  holds  and  webs  of  silliness,  millinery,  and  every  kind  of  dys 
peptic  depletion  —  and  thus  insuring  to  the  States  a  strong  and  sweet 
Female  Race,  a  race  of  perfect  Mothers  —  is  what  is  needed. 

And  now,  in  the  full  conception  of  these  facts  and  points,  and  all 
that  they  infer,  pro  and  con  —  with  yet  unshaken  faith  in  the  elements 
of  the  American  masses,  the  composites,  of  both  sexes,  and  even  con 
sider' d  as  individuals  —  and  ever  recognizing  in  them  the  broadest 
bases  of  the  best  literary  and  esthetic  appreciation  —  I  proceed  with 
my  speculations,  Vistas. 

First,  let  us  see  what  we  can  make  out  of  a  brief,  general,  sentimen 
tal  consideration  of  political  democracy,  and  whence  it  has  arisen, 
with  regard  to  some  of  its  current  features,  as  an  aggregate,  and  as  the 

*Of  these  rapidly-sketch'd  hiatuses,  the  two  which  seem  to  me  most 
serious  are,  for  one,  the  condition,  absence,  or  perhaps  the  singular  abey 
ance,  of  moral  conscientious  fibre  all  through  American  society  ;  and,  for 
another,  the  appaling  depletion  of  women  in  their  powers  of  sane  athletic 
maternity,  their  crowning  attribute,  and  ever  making  the  woman,  in  loftiest 
spheres,  superior  to  the  man. 

I  have  sometimes  thought,  indeed,  that  the  sole  avenue  and  means  of  a 
reconstructed  sociology  depended,  primarily,  on  a  new  birth,  elevation,  ex 
pansion,  invigoration  of  woman,  affording,  for  races  to  come,  (as  the  con 
ditions  that  antedate  birth  are  indispensable,)  a  perfect  motherhood.  Great, 
great,  indeed,  far  greater  than  they  know,  is  the  sphere  of  women.  But 
doubtless  the  question  of  such  new  sociology  all  goes  together,  includes 
many  varied  and  complex  influences  and  premises,  and  the  man  as  well  as 
the  woman,  and  the  woman  as  well  as  the  man. 


COLLECT  207 

basic  structure  of  our  future  literature  and  authorship.  We  shall,  it  is 
true,  quickly  and  continually  find  the  origin-idea  of  the  singleness  of 
man,  individualism,  asserting  itself,  and  cropping  forth,  even  from  the 
opposite  ideas.  But  the  mass,  or  lump  character,  for  imperative  rea 
sons,  is  to  be  ever  carefully  weigh' d,  borne  in  mind,  and  provided 
for.  Only  from  it,  and  from  its  proper  regulation  and  potency,  comes 
the  other,  comes  the  chance  of  individualism.  The  two  are  contradic 
tory,  but  our  task  is  to  reconcile  them.* 

The  political  history  of  the  past  may  be  summ'd  up  as  having  grown 
out  of  what  underlies  the  words,  order,  safety,  caste,  and  especially  out 
of  the  need  of  some  prompt  deciding  authority,  and  of  cohesion  at  all 
cost.  Leaping  time,  we  come  to  the  period  within  the  memory  of 
people  now  living,  when,  as  from  some  lair  where  they  had  slumber' d 
long,  accumulating  wrath,  sprang  up  and  are  yet  active,  (1790,  and 
on  even  to  the  present,  1870,)  those  noisy  eructations,  destructive 
iconoclasms,  a  fierce  sense  of  wrongs,  amid  which  moves  the  form, 
well  known  in  modern  history,  in  the  old  world,  stain' d  with  much 
blood,  and  mark'd  by  savage  reactionary  clamors  and  demands. 
These  bear,  mostly,  as  on  one  inclosing  point  of  need. 

For  after  the  rest  is  said  —  after  the  many  time-honor' d  and  really 
true  things  for  subordination,  experience,  rights  of  property,  &c., 
have  been  listen'd  to  and  acquiesced  in  —  after  the  valuable  and  well- 
settled  statement  of  our  duties  and  relations  in  society  is  thoroughly 
conn'd  over  and  exhausted  —  it  remains  to  bring  forward  and  modify 
everything  else  with  the  idea  of  that  Something  a  man  is,  (last 
precious  consolation  of  the  drudging  poor,)  standing  apart  from  all 
else,  divine  in  his  own  right,  and  a  woman  in  hers,  sole  and  untouch 
able  by  any  canons  of  authority,  or  any  rule  derived  from  precedent, 
state-safety,  the  acts  of  legislatures,  or  even  from  what  is  called  relig 
ion,  modesty,  or  art.  The  radiation  of  this  truth  is  the  key  of  the 
most  significant  doings  of  our  immediately  preceding  three  centuries, 
and  has  been  the  political  genesis  and  life  of  America.  Advancing 
visibly,  it  still  more  advances  invisibly.  Underneath  the  fluctuations 
of  the  expressions  of  society,  as  well  as  the  movements  of  the  politics 
of  the  leading  nations  of  the  world,  we  see  steadily  pressing  ahead 
and  strengthening  itself,  even  in  the  midst  of  immense  tendencies 

*  The  question  hinted  here  is  one  which  time  only  can  answer.  Must 
not  the  virtue  of  modern  Individualism,  continually  enlarging,  usurping  all, 
seriously  affect,  perhaps  keep  down  entirely,  in  America,  the  like  of  the 
ancient  virtue  of  Patriotism,  the  fervid  and  absorbing  love  of  general  coun 
try  ?  I  have  no  doubt  myself  that  the  two  will  merge,  and  will  mutually 
profit  and  brace  each  other,  and  that  from  them  a  greater  product,  a  third, 
will  arise.  But  I  feel  that  at  present  they  and  their  oppositions  form  a 
serious  problem  and  paradox  in  the  United  States. 
15 


208  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

toward  aggregation,  this  image  of  completeness  in  separatism,  of 
individual  personal  dignity,  of  a  single  person,  either  male  or  female, 
characterized  in  the  main,  not  from  extrinsic  acquirements  or  position, 
but  in  the  pride  of  himself  or  herself  alone  ;  and,  as  an  eventual  con 
clusion  and  summing  up,  (or  else  the  entire  scheme  of  things  is 
aimless,  a  cheat,  a  crash,)  the  simple  idea  that  the  last,  best  depend 
ence  is  to  be  upon  humanity  itself,  and  its  own  inherent,  normal,  full- 
grown  qualities,  without  any  superstitious  support  whatever.  This 
idea  of  perfect  individualism  it  is  indeed  that  deepest  tinges  and  gives 
character  to  the  idea  of  the  aggregate.  For  it  is  mainly  or  altogether 
to  serve  independent  separatism  that  we  favor  a  strong  generalization, 
consolidation.  As  it  is  to  give  the  best  vitality  and  freedom  to  the 
rights  of  the  States,  (every  bit  as  important  as  the  right  of  nationality, 
the  union,)  that  we  insist  on  the  identity  of  the  Union  at  all  hazards. 

The  purpose  of  democracy  —  supplanting  old  belief  in  the  necessary 
absoluteness  of  establish'd  dynastic  rulership,  temporal,  ecclesiastical, 
and  scholastic,  as  furnishing  the  only  security  against  chaos,  crime, 
and  ignorance  —  is,  through  many  transmigrations,  and  amid  endless 
ridicules,  arguments,  and  ostensible  failures,  to  illustrate,  at  all  hazards, 
this  doctrine  or  theory  that  man,  properly  train' d  in  sanest,  highest 
freedom,  may  and  must  become  a  law,  and  series  of  laws,  unto  him 
self,  surrounding  and  providing  for,  not  only  his  own  personal  control, 
but  all  his  relations  to  other  individuals,  and  to  the  State  ;  and  that, 
while  other  theories,  as  in  the  past  histories  of  nations,  have  proved 
wise  enough,  and  indispensable  perhaps  for  their  conditions,  this,  as 
matters  now  stand  in  our  civilized  world,  is  the  only  scheme  worth 
working  from,  as  warranting  results  like  those  of  Nature's  laws, 
reliable,  when  once  establish'd,  to  carry  on  themselves. 

The  argument  of  the  matter  is  extensive,  and,  we  admit,  by  no 
means  all  on  one  side.  What  we  shall  offer  will  be  far,  far  from 
sufficient.  But  while  leaving  unsaid  much  that  should  properly  even 
prepare  the  way  for  the  treatment  of  this  many-sided  question  of 
political  liberty,  equality,  or  republicanism  —  leaving  the  whole  history 
and  consideration  of  the  feudal  plan  and  its  products,  embodying  hu 
manity,  its  politics  and  civilization,  through  the  retrospect  of  past  time, 
(which  plan  and  products,  indeed,  make  up  all  of  the  past,  and  a  large 
part  of  the  present)  — leaving  unanswer'd,  at  least  by  any  specific  and 
local  answer,  many  a  well-wrought  argument  and  instance,  and  many 
a  conscientious  declamatory  cry  and  warning  —  as,  very  lately,  from 
an  eminent  and  venerable  person  abroad* — things,  problems,  full  of 

*  "SHOOTING  NIAGARA." — I  was  at  first  roused  to  much  anger  and 
abuse  by  this  essay  from  Mr.  Carlyle,  so  insulting  to  the  theory  of  America 
—  but  happening  to  think  afterwards  how  I  had  more  than  once  been  in  the 


COLLECT  209 

doubt,  dread,  suspense,  (not  new  to  me,  but  old  occupiers  of  many  an 
anxious  hour  in  city's  din,  or  night's  silence,)  we  still  may  give  a  page 
or  so,  whose  drift  is  opportune.  Time  alone  can  finally  answer  these 
things.  But  as  a  substitute  in  passing,  let  us,  even  if  fragmentarily, 
throw  forth  a  short  direct  or  indirect  suggestion  of  the  premises  of  that 
other  plan,  in  the  new  spirit,  under  the  new  forms,  started  here  in  our 
America. 

As  to  the  political  section  of  Democracy,  which  introduces  and  breaks 
ground  for  further  and  vaster  sections,  few  probably  are  the  minds, 
even  in  these  republican  States,  that  fully  comprehend  the  aptness  of 
that  phrase,  "  THE  GOVERNMENT  OF  THE  PEOPLE,  BY  THE  PEOPLE,  FOR 
THE  PEOPLE,"  which  we  inherit  from  the  lips  of  Abraham  Lincoln  ;  a 
formula  whose  verbal  shape  is  homely  wit,  but  whose  scope  includes 
both  the  totality  and  all  minutiae  of  the  lesson. 

The  People!  Like  our  huge  earth  itself,  which,  to  ordinary  scan 
sion,  is  full  of  vulgar  contradictions  and  offence,  man,  viewed  in  the 
lump,  displeases,  and  is  a  constant  puzzle  and  affront  to  the  merely 
educated  classes.  The  rare,  cosmical,  artist-mind,  lit  with  the  Infinite, 
alone  confronts  his  manifold  and  oceanic  qualities — but  taste,  intelli 
gence  and  culture,  (so-called,)  have  been  against  the  masses,  and 
remain  so.  There  is  plenty  of  glamour  about  the  most  damnable 
crimes  and  hoggish  meannesses,  special  and  general,  of  the  feudal  and 
dynastic  world  over  there,  with  its  personnel  of  lords  and  queens  and 
courts,  so  well-dress'd  and  so  handsome.  But  the  People  are  un- 
grammatical,  untidy,  and  their  sins  gaunt  and  ill-bred. 

Literature,  strictly  consider* d,  has  never  recognized  the  People, 
and,  whatever  may  be  said,  does  not  to-day.  Speaking  generally,  the 
tendencies  of  literature,  as  hitherto  pursued,  have  been  to  make 
mostly  critical  and  querulous  men.  It  seems  as  if,  so  far,  there  were 
some  natural  repugnance  between  a  literary  and  professional  life,  and 
the  rude  rank  spirit  of  the  democracies.  There  is,  in  later  literature, 
a  treatment  of  benevolence,  a  charity  business,  rife  enough  it  is  true  ; 
but  I  know  nothing  more  rare,  even  in  this  country,  than  a  fit  scien 
tific  estimate  and  reverent  appreciation  of  the  People  —  of  their 
measureless  wealth  of  latent  power  and  capacity,  their  vast,  artistic 
contrasts  of  lights  and  shades  —  with,  in  America,  their  entire 

like  mood,  during  which  his  essay  was  evidently  cast,  and  seen  persons  and 
things  in  the  same  light,  (indeed  some  might  say  there  are  signs  of  the  same 
feeling  in  these  Vistas)  —  I  have  since  read  it  again,  not  only  as  a  study, 
expressing  as  it  does  certain  judgments  from  the  highest  feudal  point  of 
view,  but  have  read  it  with  respect  as  coming  from  an  earnest  soul,  and  as 
contributing  certain  sharp-cutting  metallic  grains,  which,  if  not  gold  or 
silver,  may  be  good,  hard,  honest  iron. 


210  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

reliability  in  emergencies,  and  a  certain  breadth  of  historic  grandeur, 
of  peace  or  war,  far  surpassing  all  the  vaunted  samples  of  book-heroes, 
or  any  haut  ton  coteries,  in  all  the  records  of  the  world. 

The  movements  of  the  late  secession  war,  and  their  results,  to  any 
sense  that  studies  well  and  comprehends  them,  show  that  popular 
democracy,  whatever  its  faults  and  dangers,  practically  justifies  itself 
beyond  the  proudest  claims  and  wildest  hopes  of  its  enthusiasts. 
Probably  no  future  age  can  know,  but  I  well  know,  how  the  gist  of 
this  fiercest  and  most  resolute  of  the  world's  war-like  contentions  resided 
exclusively  in  the  unnamed,  unknown  rank  and  file;  and  how  the 
brunt  of  its  labor  of  death  was,  to  all  essential  purposes,  volunteer' d. 
The  People,  of  their  own  choice,  fighting,  dying  for  their  own  idea, 
insolently  attack' d  by  the  secession-slave-power,  and  its  very  existence 
imperil* d.  Descending  to  detail,  entering  any  of  the  armies,  and 
mixing  with  the  private  soldiers,  we  see  and  have  seen  august  spec 
tacles.  We  have  seen  the  alacrity  with  which  the  American-born 
populace,  the  peaceablest  and  most  good-natured  race  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  personally  independent  and  intelligent,  and  the  least  fitted 
to  submit  to  the  irksomeness  and  exasperation  of  regimental  discipline, 
sprang,  at  the  first  tap  of  the  drum,  to  arms  —  not  for  gain,  nor  even 
glory,  nor  to  repel  invasion  —  but  for  an  emblem,  a  mere  abstraction 
—  for  the  life,  the  safety  of  the  flag.  We  have  seen  the  unequal' d 
docility  and  obedience  of  these  soldiers.  We  have  seen  them  tried 
long  and  long  by  hopelessness,  mismanagement,  and  by  defeat ;  have 
seen  the  incredible  slaughter  toward  or  through  which  the  armies 
(as  at  first  Fredericksburg,  and  afterward  at  the  Wilderness,)  still 
unhesitatingly  obey'd  orders  to  advance.  We  have  seen  them  in 
trench,  or  crouching  behind  breastwork,  or  tramping  in  deep  mud,  or 
amid  pouring  rain  or  thick-falling  snow,  or  under  forced  marches  in 
hottest  summer  (as  on  the  road  to  get  to  Gettysburg)  —  vast  suffocat 
ing  swarms,  divisions,  corps,  with  every  single  man  so  grimed  and 
black  with  sweat  and  dust,  his  own  mother  would  not  have  known 
him  —  his  clothes  all  dirty,  stain' d  and  torn,  with  sour,  accumulated 
sweat  for  perfume  —  many  a  comrade,  perhaps  a  brother,  sun-struck, 
staggering  out,  dying,  by  the  roadside,  of  exhaustion — yet  the  great 
bulk  bearing  steadily  on,  cheery  enough,  hollow-bellied  from  hunger, 
but  sinewy  with  unconquerable  resolution. 

We  have  seen  this  race  proved  by  wholesale  by  drearier,  yet  more 
fearful  tests  —  the  wound,  the  amputation,  the  shatter' d  face  or  limb, 
the  slow  hot  fever,  long  impatient  anchorage  in  bed,  and  all  the  forms 
of  maiming,  operation  and  disease.  Alas  !  America  have  we  seen, 
though  only  in  her  early  youth,  already  to  hospital  brought.  There 
have  we  watch' d  these  soldiers,  many  of  them  only  boys  in  years  — 
mark'd  their  decorum,  their  religious  nature  and  fortitude,  and  their 


COLLECT  211 

sweet  affection.  Wholesale,  truly.  For  at  the  front,  and  through 
the  camps,  in  countless  tents,  stood  the  regimental,  brigade  and  divi 
sion  hospitals ;  while  everywhere  amid  the  land,  in  or  near  cities, 
rose  clusters  of  huge,  white-wash' d,  crowded,  one-story  wooden 
barracks  ;  and  there  ruled  agony  with  bitter  scourge,  yet  seldom 
brought  a  cry  ;  and  there  stalk' d  death  by  day  and  night  along  the 
narrow  aisles  between  the  rows  of  cots,  or  by  the  blankets  on  the 
ground,  and  touch' d  lightly  many  a  poor  sufferer,  often  with  blessed, 
welcome  touch. 

I  know  not  whether  I  shall  be  understood,  but  I  realize  that  it  is 
finally  from  what  I  learn' d  personally  mixing  in  such  scenes  that  I  am 
now  penning  these  pages.  One  night  in  the  gloomiest  period  of  the 
war,  in  the  Patent-office  hospital  in  Washington  city,  as  I  stood 
by  the  bedside  of  a  Pennsylvania  soldier,  who  lay,  conscious  of  ^quick 
approaching  death,  yet  perfectly  calm,  and  ^  with  noble,  spiritual 
manner,  the  veteran  surgeon,  turning  aside,  said  to  me,  that  though 
he  had  witness' d  many,  many  deaths  of  soldiers,  and  had  been  a 
worker  at  Bull  Run,  Antietam,  Fredericksburg,  &c.,  he  had  not 
seen  yet  the  first  case  of  man  or  boy  that  met  the  approach  of  disso 
lution  with  cowardly  qualms  or  terror.  My  own  observation  fully 
bears  out  the  remark. 

What  have  we  here,  if  not,  towering  above  all  talk  and  argument, 
the  plentifully -supplied,  last-needed  proof  of  democracy,  in  its  per 
sonalities  ?  Curiously  enough,  too,  the  proof  on  this  point  comes, 
I  should  say,  every  bit  as  much  from  the  south,  as  from  the  north. 
Although  I  have  spoken  only  of  the  latter,  yet  I  deliberately  include 
all.  Grand,  common  stock  !  to  me  the  accomplish'd  and  convincing 
growth,  prophetic  of  the  future  ;  proof  undeniable  to  sharpest  sense, 
of  perfect  beauty,  tenderness  and  pluck,  that  never  feudal  lord,  nor 
Greek,  nor  Roman  breed,  yet  rival' d.  Let  no  tongue  ever  speak  in 
disparagement  of  the  American  races,  north  or  south,  to  one  who  has 
been  through  the  war  in  the  great  army  hospitals. 

Meantime,  general  humanity,  (for  to  that  we  return,  as,  for  our 
purposes,  what  it  really  is,  to  bear  in  mind,)  has  always,  in  every 
department,  been  full  of  perverse  maleficence,  and  is  so  yet.  In 
downcast  hours  the  soul  thinks  it  always  will  be  —  but  soon  recovers 
from  such  sickly  moods.  I  myself  see  clearly  enough  the  crude, 
defective  streaks  in  all  the  strata  of  the  common  people  ;  the  speci 
mens  and  vast  collections  of  the  ignorant,  the  credulous,  the  unfrt  and 
uncouth,  the  incapable,  and  the  very  low  and  poor.  The  eminent 
person  just  mention' d  sneeringly  asks  whether  we  expect  to  elevate 
and  improve  a  nation's  politics  by  absorbing  such  morbid  collections 
and  qualities  therein.  The  point  is  a  formidable  one,  and  there  will 
doubtless  always  be  numbers  of  solid  and  reflective  citizens  who  will 


212  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

never  get  over  it.  Our  answer  is  general,  and  is  involved  in  the 
scope  and  letter  of  this  essay.  We  believe  the  ulterior  object  of 
political  and  all  other  government,  (having,  of  course,  provided  for 
the  police,  the  safety  of  life,  property,  and  for  the  basic  statute  and 
common  law,  and  their  administration,  always  first  in  order,)  to  be 
among  the  rest,  not  merely  to  rule,  to  repress  disorder,  &c.,  but  to 
develop,  to  open  up  to  cultivation,  to  encourage  the  possibilities  of 
all  beneficent  and  manly  outcroppage,  and  of  that  aspiration  for 
independence,  and  the  pride  and  self-respect  latent  in  all  characters. 
(Or,  if  there  be  exceptions,  we  cannot,  fixing  our  eyes  on  them 
alone,  make  theirs  the  rule  for  all.) 

I  say  the  mission  of  government,  henceforth,  in  civilized  lands,  is 
not  repression  alone,  and  not  authority  alone,  not  even  of  law,  nor 
by  that  favorite  standard  of  the  eminent  writer,  the  rule  of  the  best 
men,  the  born  heroes  and  captains  of  the  race,  (as  if  such  ever,  or 
one  time  out  of  a  hundred,  get  into  the  big  places,  elective  or 
dynastic)  —  but  higher  than  the  highest  arbitrary  rule,  to  train  com 
munities  through  all  their  grades,  beginning  with  individuals  and  end 
ing  there  again,  to  rule  themselves.  What  Christ  appear' d  for  in  the 
moral-spiritual  field  for  human-kind,  namely,  that  in  respect  to  the 
absolute  soul,  there  is  in  the  possession  of  such  by  each  single  indi 
vidual,  something  so  transcendent,  so  incapable  of  gradations,  (like 
life,)  that,  to  that  extent,  it  places  all  beings  on  a  common  level, 
utterly  regardless  of  the  distinctions  of  intellect,  virtue,  station,  or 
any  height  or  lowliness  whatever  —  is  tallied  in  like  manner,  in  this 
other  field,  by  democracy's  rule  that  men,  the  nation,  as  a  common 
aggregate  of  living  identities,  affording  in  each  a  separate  and  com 
plete  subject  for  freedom,  worldly  thrift  and  happiness,  and  for  a  fair 
chance  for  growth,  and  for  protection  in  citizenship,  &c.,  must,  to 
the  political  extent  of  the  suffrage  or  vote,  if  no  further,  be  placed, 
in  each  and  in  the  whole,  on  one  broad,  primary,  universal,  common 
platform. 

The  purpose  is  not  altogether  direct;  perhaps  it  is  more  indirect. 
For  it  is  not  that  democracy  is  of  exhaustive  account,  in  itself.  Per 
haps,  indeed,  it  is,  (like  Nature,)  of  no  account  in  itself.  It  is  that, 
as  we  see,  it  is  the  best,  perhaps  only,  fit  and  full  means,  formulater, 
general  caller-forth,  trainer,  for  the  million,  not  for  grand  material 
personalities  only,  but  for  immortal  souls.  To  be  a  voter  with  the 
rest  is  not  so  much  ;  and  this,  like  every  institute,  will  have  its  imper 
fections.  But  to  become  an  enfranchised  man,  and  now,  impediments 
removed,  to  stand  and  start  without  humiliation,  and  equal  with  the 
rest;  to  commence,  or  have  the  road  clear' d  to  commence,  the  grand 
experiment  of  development,  whose  end,  (perhaps  requiring  several 
generations,)  may  be  the  forming  of  a  full-grown  man  or  woman  — 


COLLECT  213 

that  is  something.     To  ballast  the  State  is  also  secured,  and  in  our 
times  is  to  be  secured,  in  no  other  way. 

We  do  not,  (at  any  rate  I  do  not,)  put  it  either  on  the  ground  that 
the  People,  the  masses,  even  the  best  of  them,  are,  in  their  latent  or 
exhibited  qualities,  essentially  sensible  and  good — nor  on  the  ground 
of  their  rights  ;  but  that  good  or  bad,  rights  or  no  rights,  the  demo 
cratic  formula  is  the  only  safe  and  preservative  one  for  coming  times. 
We  endow  the  masses  with  the  suffrage  for  their  own  sake,  no  doubt  ; 
then,  perhaps  still  more,  from  another  point  of  view,  for  community's 
sake.  Leaving  the  rest  to  the  sentimentalists,  we  present  freedom  as 
sufficient  in  its  scientific  aspect,  cold  as  ice,  reasoning,  deductive,  clear 
and  passionless  as  crystal. 

Democracy  too  is  law,  and  of  the  strictest,  amplest  kind.  Many 
suppose,  (and  often  in  its  own  ranks  the  error,)  that  it  means  a  throw 
ing  aside  of  law,  and  running  riot.  But,  briefly,  it  is  the  superior 
law,  not  alone  that  of  physical  force,  the  body,  which,  adding  to,  it 
supersedes  with  that  of  the  spirit.  Law  is  the  unshakable  order  of  the 
universe  forever ;  and  the  law  over  all,  and  law  of  laws,  is  the  law  of 
successions;  that  of  the  superior  law,  in  time,  gradually  supplanting 
and  overwhelming  the  inferior  one.  (While,  for  myself,  I  would 
cheerfully  agree — first  covenanting  that  the  formative  tendencies  shall 
be  administer' d  in  favor,  or  at  least  not  against  it,  and  that  this  reser 
vation  be  closely  construed  —  that  until  the  individual  or  community 
show  due  signs,  or  be  so  minor  and  fractional  as  not  to  endanger  the 
State,  the  condition  of  authoritative  tutelage  may  continue,  and  self- 
government  must  abide  its  time.)  Nor  is  the  esthetic  point,  always 
an  important  one,  without  fascination  for  highest  aiming  souls.  The 
common  ambition  strains  for  elevations,  to  become  some  privileged 
exclusive.  The  master  sees  greatness  and  health  in  being  part  of  the 
mass  ;  nothing  will  do  as  well  as  common  ground.  Would  you 
have  in  yourself  the  divine,  vast,  general  law  ?  Then  merge  yourself 
in  it. 

And,  topping  democracy,  this  most  alluring  record,  that  it  alone 
can  bind,  and  ever  seeks  to  bind,  all  nations,  all  men,  of  however  various 
and  distant  lands,  into  a  brotherhood,  a  family.  It  is  the  old,  yet 
ever-modern  dream  of  earth,  out  of  her  eldest  and  her  youngest,  her 
fond  philosophers  and  poets.  Not  that  half  only,  individualism, 
which  isolates.  There  is  another  half,  which  is  adhesiveness  or  love, 
that  fuses,  ties  and  aggregates,  making  the  races  comrades,  and  frater 
nizing  all.  Both  are  to  be  vitalized  by  religion,  (sole  worthiest 
elevator  of  man  or  State,)  breathing  into  the  proud,  material  tissues, 
the  breath  of  life.  For  I  say  at  the  core  of  democracy,  finally,  is  the 
religious  element.  All  the  religions,  old  and  new,  are  there.  Nor 
may  the  scheme  step  forth,  clothed  in  resplendent  beauty  and  com- 


214  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

mand,  till  these,  bearing  the  best,  the  latest  fruit,  the  spiritual,  shall 
fully  appear. 

A  portion  of  our  pages  we  might  indite  with  reference  toward 
Europe,  especially  the  British  part  of  it,  more  than  our  own  land, 
perhaps  not  absolutely  needed  for  the  home  reader.  But  the  whole 
question  hangs  together,  and  fastens  and  links  all  peoples.  The 
liberalist  of  to-day  has  this  advantage  over  antique  or  mediaeval  times, 
that  his  doctrine  seeks  not  only  to  individualize  but  to  universalize. 
The  great  word  Solidarity  has  arisen.  Of  all  dangers  to  a  nation,  as 
things  exist  in  our  day,  there  can  be  no  greater  one  than  having  certain 
portions  of  the  people  set  off  from  the  rest  by  a  line  drawn  —  they  not 
privileged  as  others,  but  degraded,  humiliated,  made  of  no  account. 
Much  quackery  teems,  of  course,  even  on  democracy's  side,  yet  does 
not  really  affect  the  orbic  quality  of  the  matter.  To  work  in,  if  we 
may  so  term  it,  and  justify  God,  his  divine  aggregate,  the  People, 
(or,  the  veritable  horn'd  and  sharp-tail' d  Devil,  his  aggregate,  if  there 
be  who  convulsively  insist  upon  it)  —  this,  I  say,  is  what  democracy 
is  for;  and  this  is  what  our  America  means,  and  is  doing  —  may  I  not 
say,  has  done  ?  If  not,  she  means  nothing  more,  and  does  nothing 
more,  than  any  other  land.  And  as,  by  virtue  of  its  kosmical,  anti 
septic  power,  Nature's  stomach  is  fully  strong  enough  not  only  to 
digest  the  morbific  matter  always  presented,  not  to  be  turn'd  aside,  and 
perhaps,  indeed,  intuitively  gravitating  thither  —  but  even  to  change 
such  contributions  into  nutriment  for  highest  use  and  life  —  so  Ameri 
can  democracy's.  That  is  the  lesson  we,  these  days,  send  over  to 
European  lands  by  every  western  breeze. 

And,  truly,  whatever  may  be  said  in  the  way  of  abstract  argument, 
for  or  against  the  theory  of  a  wider  democratizing  of  institutions  in 
any  civilized  country,  much  trouble  might  well  be  saved  to  all 
European  lands  by  recognizing  this  palpable  fact,  (for  a  palpable  fact 
it  is,)  that  some  form  of  such  democratizing  is  about  the  only 
resource  now  left.  That,  or  chronic  dissatisfaction  continued,  mut- 
terings  which  grow  annually  louder  and  louder,  till,  in  due  course, 
and  pretty  swiftly  in  most  cases,  the  inevitable  crisis,  crash,  dynastic 
ruin.  Anything  worthy  to  be  call'd  statesmanship  in  the  Old  World, 
I  should  say,  among  the  advanced  students,  adepts,  or  men  of  any 
brains,  does  not  debate  to-day  whether  to  hold  on,  attempting  to  lean 
back  and  monarchize,  or  to  look  forward  and  democratize  —  but 
how,  and  in  what  degree  and  part,  most  prudently  to  democratize. 

The  eager  and  often  inconsiderate  appeals  of  reformers  and  revolu 
tionists  are  indispensable,  to  counterbalance  the  inertness  and  fossilism 
making  so  large  a  part  of  human  institutions.  The  latter  will  always 
take  care  of  themselves  —  the  danger  being  that  they  rapidly  tend  to 
ossify  us.  The  former  is  to  be  treated  with  indulgence,  and  even 


COLLECT  215 

with  respect.  _As.  circulation  to  air,  so  is  agitation  and  a  plentiful 
degree  of  speculative  license  to  political  and  moral  sanity.  Indirectly, 
but  surely,  goodness,  virtue,  law,  (of  the  very  best,)  follow  freedom. 
These,  to  democracy,  are  what  the  keel  is  to  the  ship,  or  saltness  to 

the  ocean. 

The  true  gravitation-hold  of  liberalism  in  the  United  States  will  be 
a  more  universal  ownership  of  property,  general  homesteads,  general 

comfort a  vast,  intertwining  reticulation  of  wealth.      As  the  human 

frame,  or,  indeed,  any  object  in  this  manifold  universe,  is  best  kept 
together  by  the  simple  miracle  of  its  own  cohesion,  and  the  necessity, 
exercise  and  profit  thereof,  so  a  great  and  varied  nationality,  occupying 
millions  of  square  miles,  were  firmest  held  and  knit  by  the  principle  of 
the  safety  and  endurance  of  the  aggregate  of  its  middling  property 
owners.  So  that,  from  another  point  of  view,  ungracious  as  it  may 
sound,  and  a  paradox  after  what  we  have  been  saying,  democracy 
looks  with  suspicious,  ill-satisfied  eye  upon  the  very  poor,  the  ignorant, 
and  on  those  out  of  business.  She  asks  for  men  and  women  with 
occupations,  well-off,  owners  of  houses  and  acres,  and  with  cash  in 

the  bank and  with  some  cravings  for  literature,  too ;  and  must  have 

them,  and  hastens  to  make  them.  Luckily,  the  seed  is  already  well- 
sown,  and  has  taken  ineradicable  root.* 

Huge  and  mighty  are  our  days,  our  republican  lands  —  and  most  in 
their  rapid  shiftings,  their  changes,  all  in  the  interest  of  the  cause.  As 
I  write  this  particular  passage,  (November,  1868,)  the  din  of  dis 
putation  rages  around  me.  Acrid  the  temper  of  the  parties,  vital  the 
pending  questions.  Congress  convenes ;  the  President  sends  his  mes 
sage  ;  reconstruction  is  still  in  abeyance  ;  the  nomination  and  the  con 
test  for  the  twenty-first  Presidentiad  draw  close,  with  loudest  threat 
and  bustle.  Of  these,  and  all  the  like  of  these,  the  eventuations  I 
know  not;  but  well  I  know  that  behind  them,  and  whatever  their 
eventuations,  the  vital  things  remain  safe  and  certain,  and  all  the  needed 
work  goes  on.  Time,  with  soon  or  later  superciliousness,  disposes  of 

*  For  fear  of  mistake,  I  may  as  well  distinctly  specify,  as  cheerfully  in 
cluded  in  the  model  and  standard  of  these  Vistas,  a  practical,  stirring, 
worldly,  money-making,  even  materialistic  character.  It  is  undeniable  that 
our  farms,  stores,  offices,  dry-goods,  coal  and  groceries,  enginery,  cash- 
accounts,  trades,  earnings,  markets,  &c.,  should  be  attended  to  in  earnest 
and  actively  pursued,  just  as  if  they  had  a  real  and  permanent  existence, 
perceive  clearly  that  the  extreme  business  energy,  and  this  almost  maniacal 
appetite  for  wealth  prevalent  in  the  United  States,  are  parts  of  amelioration 
and  progress,  indispensably  needed  to  prepare  the  very  results  I  demand. 
My  theory  includes  riches,  and  the  getting  of  riches,  and  the  amplest 
products,  power,  activity,  inventions,  movements,  &c.  Upon  them,  a? 
upon  substrata,  I  raise  the  edifice  designed  in  these  Vistas. 


2i6  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Presidents,  Congressmen,  party  platforms,  and  such.  Anon,  it  clears 
the  stage  of  each  and  any  mortal  shred  that  thinks  itself  so  potent  to 
its  day ;  and  at  and  after  which,  (with  precious,  golden  exceptions 
once  or  twice  in  a  century,)  all  that  relates  to  sir  potency  is  flung  to 
moulder  in  a  burial-vault,  and  no  one  bothers  himself  the  least  bit 
about  it  afterward.  But  the  People  ever  remain,  tendencies  continue, 
and  all  the  idiocratic  transfers  in  unbroken  chain  go  on. 

In  a  few  years  the  dominion-heart  of  America  will  be  far  inland, 
toward  the  west.  Our  future  national  capital  may  not  be  where  the 
present  one  is.  It  is  possible,  nay  likely,  that  in  less  than  fifty  years, 
it  will  migrate  a  thousand  or  two  miles,  will  be  re-founded,  and  every 
thing  belonging  to  it  made  on  a  different  plan,  original,  far  more 
superb.  The  main  social,  political,  spine-character  of  the  States  will 
probably  run  along  the  Ohio,  Missouri  and  Mississippi  rivers,  and 
west  and  north  of  them,  including  Canada.  Those  regions,  with  the 
group  of  powerful  brothers  toward  the  Pacific,  (destined  to  the  master 
ship  of  that  sea  and  its  countless  paradises  of  islands,)  will  compact  and 
settle  the  traits  of  America,  with  all  the  old  retained,  but  more  ex 
panded,  grafted  on  newer,  hardier,  purely  native  stock.  A  giant 
growth,  composite  from  the  rest,  getting  their  contribution,  absorbing 
it,  to  make  it  more  illustrious.  From  the  north,  intellect,  the  sun  of 
things,  also  the  idea  of  unswayable  justice,  anchor  amid  the  last,  the 
wildest  tempests.  From  the  south  the  living  soul,  the  animus  of  good 
and  bad,  haughtily  admitting  no  demonstration  but  its  own.  While 
from  the  west  itself  comes  solid  personality,  with  blood  and  brawn, 
and  the  deep  quality  of  all-accepting  fusion. 

Political  democracy,  as  it  exists  and  practically  works  in  America, 
with  all  its  threatening  evils,  supplies  a  training-school  for  making  first- 
class  men.  It  is  life's  gymnasium,  not  of  good  only,  but  of  all.  We 
try  often,  though  we  fall  back  often.  A  brave  delight,  fit  for  freedom's 
athletes,  fills  these  arenas,  and  fully  satisfies,  out  of  the  action  in  them, 
irrespective  of  success.  Whatever  we  do  not  attain,  we  at  any  rate 
attain  the  experiences  of  the  fight,  the  hardening  of  the  strong  cam 
paign,  and  throb  with  currents  of  attempt  at  least.  Time  is  ample. 
Let  the  victors  come  after  us.  Not  for  nothing  does  evil  play  its  part 
among  us.  Judging  from  the  main  portions  of  the  history  of  the 
world,  so  far,  justice  is  always  in  jeopardy,  peace  walks  amid  hourly 
pitfalls,  and  of  slavery,  misery,  meanness,  the  craft  of  tyrants  and  the 
credulity  of  the  populace,  in  some  of  their  protean  forms,  no  voice  can 
at  any  time  say,  They  are  not.  The  clouds  break  a  little,  and  the  sun 
shines  out  —  but  soon  and  certain  the  lowering  darkness  falls  again,  as 
if  to  last  forever.  Yet  is  there  an  immortal  courage  and  prophecy  in 
every  sane  soul  that  cannot,  must  not,  under  any  circumstances,  capitu 
late.  Vive,  the  attack  —  the  perennial  assault!  Vive,  the  unpopular 


COLLECT  217 

causc the  spirit  that  audaciously  aims  —  the  never-abandon'd  efforts, 

pursued  the  same  amid  opposing  proofs  and  precedents. 

Once,  before  the  war,  (alas!  I  dare  not  say  how  many  times  the 
mood  has  come!)  I,  too,  was  fill'd  with  doubt  and  gloom.  A  for 
eigner,  an  acute  and  good  man,  had  impressively  said  to  me,  that  day 

putting  in  form,  indeed,  my  own  observations:    "I  have  travel' d 

much  in  the  United  States,  and  watch' d  their  politicians,  and  listen' d 
to  the  speeches  of  the  candidates,  and  read  the  journals,  and  gone  into 
the  public  houses,  and  heard  the  unguarded  talk  of  men.  And  I  have 
found  your  vaunted  America  honeycomb' d  from  top  to  toe  with  in- 
fidelism,  even  to  itself  and  its  own  programme.  I  have  mark'd  the 
brazen  hell-faces  of  secession  and  slavery  gazing  defiantly  from  all  the 
windows  and  doorways.  I  have  everywhere  found,  primarily,  thieves 
and  scalliwags  arranging  the  nominations  to  offices,  and  sometimes 
filling  the  offices  themselves.  I  have  found  the  north  just  as  full  of 
bad  stuff  as  the  south.  Of  the  holders  of  public  office  in  the  Nation 
or  the  States  or  their  municipalities,  I  have  found  that  not  one  in  a 
hundred  has  been  chosen  by  any  spontaneous  selection  of  the  outsiders, 
the  people,  but  all  have  been  nominated  and  put  through  by  little  or 
large  caucuses  of  the  politicians,  and  have  got  in  by  corrupt  rings  and 
electioneering,  not  capacity  or  desert.  I  have  noticed  how  the 
millions  of  sturdy  farmers  and  mechanics  are  thus  the  helpless  supple 
jacks  of  comparatively  few  politicians.  And  I  have  noticed  more  and 
more,  the  alarming  spectacle  of  parties  usurping  the  government,  and 
openly  and  shamelessly  wielding  it  for  party  purposes." 

Sad,  serious,  deep  truths.  Yet  are  there  other,  still  deeper,  amply 
confronting,  dominating  truths.  Over  those  politicians  and  great  and 
little  rings,  and  over  all  their  insolence  and  wiles,  and  over  the  power- 
fulest  parties,  looms  a  power,  too  sluggish  maybe,  but  ever  holding 
decisions  and  decrees  in  hand,  ready,  with  stern  process,  to  execute 
them  as  soon  as  plainly  needed  —  and  at  times,  indeed,  summarily 
crushing  to  atoms  the  mightiest  parties,  even  in  the  hour  of  their 
pride. 

In  saner  hours  far  different  are  the  amounts  of  these  things  from 
what,  at  first  sight,  they  appear.  Though  it  is  no  doubt  important 
who  is  elected  governor,  mayor,  or  legislator,  (and  full  of  dismay 
when  incompetent  or  vile  ones  get  elected,  as  they  sometimes  do,) 
there  are  other,  quieter  contingencies,  infinitely  more  important. 
Shams,  &c.,  will  always  be  the  show,  like  ocean's  scum  ;  enough,  if 
waters  deep  and  clear  make  up  the  rest.  Enough,  that  while  the 
piled  embroider' d  shoddy  gaud  and  fraud  spreads  to  the  superficial 
eye,  the  hidden  warp  and  weft  are  genuine,  and  will  wear  forever. 
Enough,  in  short,  that  the  race,  the  land  which  could  raise  such  as  the 
late  rebellion,  could  also  put  it  down, 


218  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

The  average  man  of  a  land  at  last  only  is  important.  He,  in  these 
States,  remains  immortal  owner  and  boss,  deriving  good  uses,  some 
how,  out  of  any  sort  of  servant  in  office,  even  the  basest ;  (certain 
universal  requisites,  and  their  settled  regularity  and  protection,  being 
first  secured, )  a  nation  like  ours,  in  a  sort  of  geological  formation  state, 
trying  continually  new  experiments,  choosing  new  delegations,  is  not 
served  by  the  best  men  only,  but  sometimes  more  by  those  that 
provoke  it  —  by  the  combats  they  arouse.  Thus  national  rage,  fury, 
discussions,  &c.,  better  than  content.  Thus,  also,  the  warning 
signals,  invaluable  for  after  times. 

What  is  more  dramatic  than  the  spectacle  we  have  seen  repeated, 
and  doubtless  long  shall  see  — •  the  popular  judgment  taking  the  success 
ful  candidates  on  trial  in  the  offices  —  standing  off,  as  it  were,  and 
observing  them  and  their  doings  for  a  while,  and  always  giving,  finally, 
the  fit,  exactly  due  reward  ?  I  think,  after  all,  the  sublimest  part  of 
political  history,  and  its  culmination,  is  currently  issuing  from  the 
American  people.  I  know  nothing  grander,  better  exercise,  better 
digestion,  more  positive  proof  of  the  past,  the  triumphant  result  of 
faith  in  human-kind,  than  a  well-contested  American  national  election. 
Then  still  the  thought  returns,  (like  the  thread-passage  in  overtures,) 
giving  the  key  and  echo  to  these  pages.  When  I  pass  to  and  fro, 
different  latitudes,  different  seasons,  beholding  the  crowds  of  the  great 
cities,  New  York,  Boston,  Philadelphia,  Cincinnati,  Chicago,  St. 
Louis,  San  Francisco,  New  Orleans,  Baltimore — when  I  mix  with 
these  interminable  swarms  of  alert,  turbulent,  good-natured,  independ 
ent  citizens,  mechanics,  clerks,  young  persons — at  the  idea  of  this 
mass  of  men,  so  fresh  and  free,  so  loving  and  so  proud,  a  singular 
awe  falls  upon  me.  I  feel,  with  dejection  and  amazement,  that 
among  our  geniuses  and  talented  writers  or  speakers,  few  or  none 
have  yet  really  spoken  to  this  people,  created  a  single  image-making 
work  for  them,  or  absorb' d  the  central  spirit  and  the  idiosyncrasies 
which  are  theirs — and  which,  thus,  in  highest  ranges,  so  far  remain 
entirely  uncelebrated,  unexpress'd. 

Dominion  strong  is  the  body's  ;  dominion  stronger  is  the  mind's. 
What  has  fill'd,  and  fills  to-day  our  intellect,  our  fancy,  furnishing 
the  standards  therein,  is  yet  foreign.  The  great  poems,  Shakspere 

,'  included,  are  poisonous  to  the  idea  of  the  pride  and  dignity  of  the 
common  people,  the  life-blood  of  democracy.  The  models  of  our 
literature,  as  we  get  it  from  other  lands,  ultra-marine,  have  had  their 
birth  in  courts,  and  bask'd  and  grown  in  castle  sunshine;  all  smells 
of  princes'  favors.  Of  workers  of  a  certain  sort,  we  have,  indeed, 
plenty,  contributing  after  their  kind;  many  elegant,  many  learn'd,  all 
complacent.  But  touch' d  by  the  national  test,  or  tried  by  the  stan- 

i  dards  of  democratic  personality,  they  wither  to  ashes.     I  say  I  have 


COLLECT  219 

not  seen  a  single  writer,  artist,  lecturer,  or  what-not,  that  has  con 
fronted  the  voiceless  but  ever  erect  and  active,  pervading,  underlying 
will  and  typic  aspiration  of  the  land,  in  a  spirit  kindred  to  itself, 
you  call  those  genteel  little  creatures  American  poets?  Do  you  term 
that  perpetual,  pistareen,  paste-pot  work,  American  art,  American 
drama,  taste,  verse  ?  I  think  I  hear,  echoed  as  from  some  mountain- 
top  afar  in  the  west,  the  scornful  laugh  of  the  Genius  of  these  States. 

Democracy,  in  silence,  biding  its  time,  ponders  its  own  ideals,  not 
of  literature  and  art  only  — not  of  men  only,  but  of  women, 
idea  of  the  women  of  America,  (extricated  from  this  daze,  this  fossil 
and  unhealthy  air  which  hangs  about  the  word  lady.)  develop  d,  raised 
to  become  the  robust  equals,  workers,  and,  it  may  be,  even  practical 
and  political  deciders  with  the  men  — greater  than  man,  we  may 
admit,  through  their  divine  maternity,  always  their  towering,  emble 
matical  attribute  — but  great,  at  any  rate,  as  man,  in  all  departments  ; 
or,  rather,  capable  of  being  so,  soon  as  they  realize  it,  and  can  bring 
themselves  to  give  up  toys  and  fictions,  and  launch  forth,  as  men  do, 
amid  real,  independent,  stormy  life. 

Then,  as  towards  our  thought's  finate,  (and,  in  that,  overarching 
the  true  scholar's  lesson,)  we  have  to  say  there  can  be  no  complete  or 
epical  presentation  of  democracy  in  the  aggregate,  or  anything  like  it, 
at  this  day,  because  its  doctrines  will  only  be  effectually  incarnated  in 
any  one  branch,  when,  in  all,  their  spirit  is  at  the  root  and  centre 
Far  far,  indeed,  stretch,  in  distance,  our  Vistas!  How  much  is  still 
to  be  disentangled,  freed!  How  long  it  takes  to  make  this  American 
world  see  that  it  is,  in  itself,  the  final  authority  and  reliance! 

Did  you,  too,  O  friend,  suppose  democracy  was  only  for  elections, 
for  politics,  and  for  a  party  name?  I  say  democracy  is  only  of 
use  there  that  it  may  pass  on  and  come  to  its  flower  and  fruits  in 
manners,  in  the  highest  forms  of  interaction  between  men,  and  their 
beliefs  — in  religion,  literature,  colleges,  and  schools— democracy  in 
all  public  and  private  life,  and  in  the  army  and  navy.* 
intimated  that,  as  a  paramount  scheme,  it  has  yet  few  or  no  tu 
realizers  and  believers.  I  do  not  see,  either,  that  it  owes  any  serious 
thanks  to  noted  propagandists  or  champions,  or  has  been  essentially 
help'd,  though  often  harm'd,  by  them.  It  has  been  and  is  carried  on 
by  all  the  moral  forces,  and  by  trade,  finance,  machinery,  intercom 
munications,  and,  in  fact,  by  all  the  developments  of  history,  an( 

~~*The  whole  present  system  of  the  officering  and  personnel  of  the  army 
and  navy  of  these  States,  and  the  spirit  and  letter  of  their  trebly-anstocraUc 
rules  and  regulations,  is  a  monstrous  exotic,  a  nuisance  and  revolt,  and  be 
long  here  just  as  much  as  orders  of  nobility,  or  the  Pope's  council  of  cardi 
nal?.  I  say  if  the  present  theory  of  our  army  and  navy  is  sensible  and  true, 
then  the  rest  of  America  is  an  unmitigated  fraud. 


220  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

no  more  be  stopp'd  than  the  tides,  or  the  earth  in  its  orbit.  Doubt 
less,  also,  it  resides,  crude  and  latent,  well  down  in  the  hearts  of  the 
fair  average  of  the  American-born  people,  mainly  in  the  agricultural 
regions.  But  it  is  not  yet,  there  or  anywhere,  the  fully-receiv' d,  the 
fervid,  the  absolute  faith. 

I  submit,  therefore,  that  the  fruition  of  democracy,  on  aught  like  a 
grand  scale,  resides  altogether  in  the  future.  As,  under  any  profound 
and  comprehensive  view  of  the  gorgeous-composite  feudal  world,  we 
see  in  it,  through  the  long  ages  and  cycles  of  ages,  the  results  of  a  deep, 
integral,  human  and  divine  principle,  or  fountain,  from  which  issued 
laws,  ecclesia,  manners,  institutes,  costumes,  personalities,  poems, 
(hitherto  unequall' d,)  faithfully  partaking  of  their  source,  and  indeed 
only  arising  either  to  betoken  it,  or  to  furnish  parts  of  that  varied-flow 
ing  display,  whose  centre  was  one  and  absolute  —  so,  long  ages  hence, 
shall  the  due  historian  or  critic  make  at  least  an  equal  retrospect, 
an  equal  history  for  the  democratic  principle.  It  too  must  be  adorn* d, 
credited  with  its  results — then,  when  it,  with  imperial  power,  through 
amplest  time,  has  dominated  mankind — has  been  the  source  and  test 
of  all  the  moral,  esthetic,  social,  political,  and  religious  expressions  and 
institutes  of  the  civilized  world — has  begotten  them  in  spirit  and  in 
form,  and  has  carried  them  to  its  own  unprecedented  heights  —  has 
had,  (it  is  possible,)  monastics  and  ascetics,  more  numerous,  more 
devout  than  the  monks  and  priests  of  all  previous  creeds — has  sway'd 
the  ages  with  a  breadth  and  rectitude  tallying  Nature's  own — has 
fashion' d,  systematized,  and  triumphantly  finish' d  and  carried  out,  in 
its  own  interest,  and  with  unparallel'd  success,  a  new  earth  and  a  new 
man. 

Thus  we  presume  to  write,  as  it  were,  upon  things  that  exist  not, 
and  travel  by  maps  yet  unmade,  and  a  blank.  But  the  throes  of 
birth  are  upon  us  ;  and  we  have  something  of  this  advantage  in  sea 
sons  of  strong  formations,  doubts,  suspense  —  for  then  the  afflatus  of 
such  themes  haply  may  fall  upon  us,  more  or  less  ;  and  then,  hot 
from  surrounding  war  and  revolution,  our  speech,  though  without 
polish' d  coherence,  and  a  failure  by  the  standard  called  criticism, 
comes  forth,  real  at  least  as  the  lightnings. 

And  may-be  we,  these  days,  have,  too,  our  own  reward  —  (for 
there  are  yet  some,  in  all  lands,  worthy  to  be  so  encouraged.) 
Though  not  for  us  the  joy  of  entering  at  the  last  the  conquer' d  city 
—  not  ours  the  chance  ever  to  see  with  our  own  eyes  the  peerless 
power  and  splendid  eclat  of  the  democratic  principle,  arriv'd  at 
mericfian,  filling  the  world  with  effulgence  and  majesty  far  beyond 
those  of  past  history's  kings,  or  all  dynastic  sway  —  there  is  yet,  to 
whoever  is  eligible  among  us,  the  prophetic  vision,  the  joy  of  being 
toss'd  in  the  brave  turmoil  of  these  times  —  the  promulgation  and 


COLLECT  221 

the  path,  obedient,  lowly  reverent  to  the  voice,  the  gesture  of  the 
god,  or  holy  ghost,  which  others  see  not,  hear  not  —  with  the  proud 
consciousness  that  amid  whatever  clouds,  seductions,  or  heart- 
wearying  postponements,  we  have  never  deserted,  never  despair' d, 
never  abandon' d  the  faith. 

So  much  contributed,  to  be  conn'd  well,  to  help  prepare  and  brace' 
our  edifice,  our  plann'd  Idea  —  we  still  proceed  to  give  it  in  another 
of  its  aspects  —  perhaps  the  main,  the  high  facade  of  all.  For  to 
democracy,  the  leveler,  the  unyielding  principle  of  the  average,  is 
surely  join'd  another  principle,  equally  unyielding,  closely  tracking 
the  first,  indispensable  to  it,  opposite,  (as  the  sexes  are  opposite,) 
and  whose  existence,  confronting  and  ever  modifying  the  other, 
often  clashing,  paradoxical,  yet  neither  of  highest  avail  without  the 
other,  plainly  supplies  to  these  grand  cosmic  politics  of  ours,  and  to 
the  launch' d-forth  mortal  dangers  of  republicanism,  to-day  or  any  day, 
the  counterpart  and  offset  whereby  Nature  restrains  the  deadly 
original  relentlessness  of  all  her  first-class  laws.  This  second  prin 
ciple  is  individuality,  the  pride  and  centripetal  isolation  of  a  human 
being  in  himself — identity  —  personalism.  Whatever  the  name, 
its  acceptance  and  thorough  infusion  through  the  organizations  of 
political  commonalty  now  shooting  Aurora-like  about  the  world,  are 
of  utmost  importance,  as  the  principle  itself  is  needed  for  very  life's 
sake.  It  forms,  in  a  sort,  or  is  to  form,  the  compensating  balance- 
wheel  of  the  successful  working  machinery  of  aggregate  America. 

And,  if  we  think  of  it,  what  does  civilization  itself  rest  upon  — 
and  what  object  has  it,  with  its  religions,  arts,  schools,  &c.,  but  rich, 
luxuriant,  varied  personalism  ?  To  that,  all  bends  ;  and  it  is  because 
toward  such  result  democracy  alone,  on  anything  like  Nature's  scale, 
breaks  up  the  limitless  fallows  of  humankind,  and  plants  the  seed,  and 
gives  fair  play,  that  its  claims  now  precede  the  rest.  The  literature, 
songs,  esthetics,  &c. ,  of  a  country  are  of  importance  principally  because 
they  furnish  the  materials  and  suggestions  of  personality  for  the  women 
and  men  of  that  country,  and  enforce  them  in  a  thousand  effective 
ways.*  As  the  topmost  claim  of  a  strong  consolidating  of  the  na 
tionality  of  these  States,  is,  that  only  by  such  powerful  compaction 

*  After  the  rest  is  satiated,  all  interest  culminates  in  the  field  of  persons, 
and  never  flags  there.  Accordingly  in  this  field  have  the  great  poets  and 
literatuses  signally  toil'd.  They  too,  in  all  ages,  all  lands,  have  been 
creators,  fashioning,  making  types  of  men  and  women,  as  Adam  and  Eve 
are  made  in  the  divine  fable.  Behold,  shaped,  bred  by  orientalism,  feudal 
ism,  through  their  long  growth  and  culmination,  and  breeding  back  in  re 
turn  —  (when  shall  we  have  an  equal  series,  typical  of  democracy  ?)  — 
behold,  commencing  in  primal  Asia,  (apparently  formulated,  in  what  be 
ginning  we  know,  in  the  gods  of  the  mythologies,  and  coming  down 


222  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

can  the  separate  States  secure  that  full  and  free  swing  within  their 
spheres,  which  is  becoming  to  them,  each  after  its  kind,  so  will 
individuality,  with  unimpeded  branchings,  flourish  best  under  imperial 
republican  forms. 

Assuming  Democracy  to  be  at  present  in  its  embryo  condition,  and 
chat  the  only  large  and  satisfactory  justification  of  it  resides  in  the 
future,  mainly  through  the  copious  production  of  perfect  characters 
among  the  people,  and  through  the  advent  of  a  sane  and  pervading 
religiousness,  it  is  with  regard  to  the  atmosphere  and  spaciousness  fit 
for  such  characters,  and  of  certain  nutriment  and  cartoon-draftings 
proper  for  them,  and  indicating  them  for  New- World  purposes,  that 
I  continue  the  present  statement  —  an  exploration,  as  of  new  ground, 
wherein,  like  other  primitive  surveyors,  I  must  do  the  best  I  can,  leav 
ing  it  to  those  who  come  after  me  to  do  much  better.  (The  service, 
in  fact,  if  any,  must  be  to  break  a  sort  of  first  path  or  track,  no  matter 
how  rude  and  ungeometrical.) 

We  have  frequently  printed  the  word  Democracy.  Yet  I  cannot 
too  often  repeat  that  it  is  a  word  the  real  gist  of  which  still  sleeps, 
quite  unawaken'd,  notwithstanding  the  resonance  and  the  many  angry 
tempests  out  of  which  its  syllables  have  come,  from  pen  or  tongue.  It 
is  a  great  word,  whose  history,  I  suppose,  remains  unwritten,  because 
that  history  has  yet  to  be  enacted.  It  is,  in  some  sort,  younger 
brother  of  another  great  and  often-used  word,  Nature,  whose  his 
tory  also  waits  unwritten.  As  I  perceive,  the  tendencies  of  our 
day,  in  the  States,  (and  I  entirely  respect  them,)  are  toward  those 
vast  and  sweeping  movements,  influences,  moral  and  physical,  of 
humanity,  now  and  always  current  over  the  planet,  on  the  scale  of 
the  impulses  of  the  elements.  Then  it  is  also  good  to  reduce  the 

thence,)  a  few  samples  out  of  the  countless  product,  bequeath' d  to  the 
moderns,  bequeathed  to  America  as  studies.  For  the  men,  Yudishtura, 
Rama,  Arjuna,  Solomon,  most  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament  characters; 
Achilles,  Ulysses,  Theseus,  Prometheus,  Hercules,  ^neas,  Plutarch's 
heroes  ;  the  Merlin  of  Celtic  bards  ;  the  Cid,  Arthur  and  his  knights,  Sieg 
fried  and  Hagen  in  the  Nibelungen  ;  Roland  and  Oliver  j  Roustam  in  the 
Shah-Nemah  ;  and  so  on  to  Milton's  Satan,  Cervantes'  Don  Quixote,  Shak- 
spere's  Hamlet,  Richard  II.,  Lear,  Marc  Antony,  &c.,  and  the  modern 
Faust.  These,  I  say,  are  models,  combined,  adjusted  to  other  standards 
than  America's,  but  of  priceless  value  to  her  and  hers. 

Among  women,  the  goddesses  of  the  Egyptian,  Indian  and  Greek  mythol 
ogies,  certain  Bible  characters,  especially  the  Holy  Mother ;  Cleopatra, 
Penelope ;  the  portraits  of  Brunhelde  and  Chriemhilde  in  the  Nibelungen  $ 
Oriana,  Una,  &c. ;  the  modern  Consuelo,  Walter  Scott's  Jeanie  and  Effie 
Deans,  &c.,  &c.  (Yet  woman  portray' d  or  outlin'd  at  her  best,  or  as  per 
fect  human  mother,  does  not  hitherto,  it  seems  to  me,  fully  appear  in 
literature.) 


COLLECT  223 

whole  matter  to  the  consideration  of  a  single  self,  a  man,  a  woman, 
on  permanent  grounds.  Even  for  the  treatment  of  the  universal,  in 
politics,  metaphysics,  or  anything,  sooner  or  later  we  come  down  to 
one  single,  solitary  soul. 

There  is,  in  sanest  hours,  a  consciousness,  a  thought  that  rises,  in 
dependent,  lifted  out  from  all  else,  calm,  like  the  stars,  shining  eternsV 
This  is  the  thought  of  identity  —  yours  for  you,  whoever  you  are,  as 
mine  for  me.  Miracle  of  miracles,  beyond  statement,  most  spiritual 
and  vaguest  of  earth's  dreams,  yet  hardest  basic  fact,  and  only  entrance 
to  all  facts.  In  such  devout  hours,  in  the  midst  of  the  significant 
wonders  of  heaven  and  earth,  (significant  only  because  of  the  Me  in 
the  centre,)  creeds,  conventions,  fall  away  and  become  of  no  account 
before  this  simple  idea.  Under  the  luminousness  of  real  vision,  it 
alone  takes  possession,  takes  value.  Like  the  shadowy  dwarf  in  the 
fable,  once  liberated  and  look'd  upon,  it  expands  over  the  whole 
earth,  and  spreads  to  the  roof  of  heaven. 

The  quality  of  BEING,  in  the  object's  self,  according  to  its  own 
central  idea  and  purpose,  and  of  growing  therefrom  and  thereto  —  not 
criticism  by  other  standards,  and  adjustments  thereto  —  is  the  lesson  of 
Nature.  True,  the  full  man  wisely  gathers,  culls,  absorbs ;  but  if, 
engaged  disproportionately  in  that,  he  slights  or  overlays  the  precious 
idiocrasy  and  special  nativity  and  intention  that  he  is,  the  man's  self, 
the  main  thing,  is  a  failure,  however  wide  his  general  cultivation. 
Thus,  in  our  times,  refinement  and  delicatesse  are  not  only  attended  to 
sufficiently,  but  threaten  to  eat  us  up,  like  a  cancer.  Already,  the 
democratic  genius  watches,  ill-pleased,  these  tendencies.  Provision 
for  a  little  healthy  rudeness,  savage  virtue,  justification  of  what  one 
has  in  one's  self,  whatever  it  is,  is  demanded.  Negative  qualities, 
even  deficiencies,  would  be  a  relief.  Singleness  and  normal  simplicity 
and  separation,  amid  this  more  and  more  complex,  more  and  more 
artificialized  state  of  society  —  how  pensively  we  yearn  for  them!  how 
we  would  welcome  their  return! 

In  some  such  direction,  then  —  at  any  rate  enough  to  preserve  the 
balance  —  we  feel  called  upon  to  throw  what  weight  we  can,  not  for 
absolute  reasons,  but  current  ones.  To  prune,  gather,  trim,  conform, 
and  ever  cram  and  stuff,  and  be  genteel  and  proper,  is  the  pressure  of 
our  days.  While  aware  that  much  can  be  said  even  in  behalf  of  all 
this,  we  perceive  that  we  have  not  now  to  consider  the  question  of 
what  is  demanded  to  serve  a  half-starved  and  barbarous  nation,  or  set 
of  nations,  but  what  is  most  applicable,  most  pertinent,  for  numerous 
congeries  of  conventional,  over-corpulent  societies,  already  becoming 
stifled  and  rotten  with  flatulent,  infidelistic  literature,  and  polite  con 
formity  and  art.  In  addition  to  establish' d  sciences,  we  suggest  a 
science  as  it  were  of  healthy  average  personalism,  on  original-universal 
16 


224  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

grounds,  the  object  of  which  should  be  to  raise  up  and  supply  through 
th\*  States  a  copious  race  of  superb  American  men  and  women,  cheer 
ful,  religious,  ahead  of  any  yet  known. 

America  has  yet  morally  and  artistically  originated  nothing.  She 
seems  singularly  unaware  that  the  models  of  persons,  books,  manners, 
5'. J. ,  appropriate  for  former  conditions  and  for  European  lands,  are  but 
exiles  and  exotics  here.  No  current  of  her  life,  as  shown  on  the  sur 
faces  of  what  is  authoritatively  called  her  society,  accepts  or  runs  into 
social  or  esthetic  democracy;  but  all  the  currents  set  squarely  against  it. 
Never,  in  the  Old  World,  was  thoroughly  upholster' d  exterior  appear 
ance  and  show,  mental  and  other,  built  entirely  on  the  idea  of  caste, 
and  on  the  sufficiency  of  mere  outside  acquisition — never  were  glib- 
ness,  verbal  intellect,  more  the  test,  the  emulation  —  more  loftily  ele 
vated  as  head  and  sample  —  than  they  are  on  the  surface  of  our 
republican  States  this  day.  The  writers  of  a  time  hint  the  mottoes  of 
its  gods.  The  word  of  the  modern,  say  these  voices,  is  the  word 
Culture. 

We  find  ourselves  abruptly  in  close  quarters  with  the  enemy. 
This  word  Culture,  or  what  it  has  come  to  represent,  involves,  by 
contrast,  our  whole  theme,  and  has  been,  indeed,  the  spur,  urging 
us  to  engagement.  Certain  questions  arise.  As  now  taught,  ac 
cepted  and  carried  out,  are  not  the  processes  of  culture  rapidly  cre 
ating  a  class  of  supercilious  infidels,  who  believe  in  nothing  ?  Shall 
a  man  lose  himself  in  countless  masses  of  adjustments,  and  be  so 
shaped  with  reference  to  this,  that,  and  the  other,  that  the  simply 
good  and  healthy  and  brave  parts  of  him  are  reduced  and  clipped 
away,  like  the  bordering  of  box  in  a  garden  ?  You  can  cultivate 
corn  and  roses  and  orchards  —  but  who  shall  cultivate  the  mountain 
peaks,  the  ocean,  and  the  tumbling  gorgeousness  of  the  clouds  ? 
Lastly  —  is  the  readily-given  reply  that  culture  only  seeks  to  help, 
systematize,  and  put  in  attitude,  the  elements  of  fertility  and  power, 
a  conclusive  reply  ? 

I  do  not  so  much  object  to  the  name,  or  word,  but  I  should  cer 
tainly  insist,  for  the  purposes  of  these  States,  on  a  radical  change  of 
category,  in  the  distribution  of  precedence.  I  should  demand  a 
programme  of  culture,  drawn  out,  not  for  a  single  class  alone,  or  for 
the  parlors  or  lecture-rooms,  but  with  an  eye  to  practical  life,  the 
west,  the  working-men,  the  facts  of  farms  and  jack-planes  and 
engineers,  and  of  the  broad  range  of  the  women  also  of  the  middle 
and  working  strata,  and  with  reference  to  the  perfect  equality  of 
women,  and  of  a  grand  and  powerful  motherhood.  I  should  demand 
of  this  programme  or  theory  a  scope  generous  enough  to  include  the 
widest  human  area.  It  must  have  for  its  spinal  meaning  the  forma 
tion  of  a  typical  personality  of  character,  eligible  to  the  uses  of  the 


COLLECT  125 

high  average  of  men  —  and  not  restricted  by  conditions  ineligible  to 
the  masses.  The  best  culture  will  always  be  that  of  the  manly  and 
courageous  instincts,  and  loving  perceptions,  and  of  self-respect  — 
aiming  to  form,  over  this  continent,  an  idiocrasy  of  universalism, 
which,  true  child  of  America,  will  bring  joy  to  its  mother,  returning 
to  her  in  her  own  spirit,  recruiting  myriads  of  offspring,  able,  natural, 
perceptive,  tolerant,  devout  believers  in  her,  America,  and  with  some 
Definite  instinct  why  and  for  what  she  has  arisen,  most  vast,  most 
formidable  of  historic  births,  and  is,  now  and  here,  with  wonderful 
step,  journeying  through  Time. 

The  problem,  as  it  seems  to  me,  presented  to  the  New  World, 
is,  under  permanent  law  and  order,  and  after  preserving  cohesion, 
(ensemble- Individuality,)  at  all  hazards,  to  vitalize  man's  free  play 
of  special  Personalism,  recognizing  in  it  something  that  calls  ever 
more  to  be  consider' d,  fed,  and  adopted  as  the  substratum  for  the 
best  that  belongs  to  us,  (government  indeed  is  for  it,)  including  the 
new  esthetics  of  our  future. 

To  formulate  beyond  this  present  vagueness  —  to  help  line  and 
put  before  us  the  species,  or  a  specimen  of  the  species,  of  the  dem 
ocratic  ethnology  of  the  future,  is  a  work  toward  which  the  genius 
of  our  land,  with  peculiar  encouragement,  invites  her  well-wishers. 
Already  certain  limnings,  more  or  less  grotesque,  more  or  less  fading 
and  watery,  have  appear' d.  We  too,  (repressing  doubts  and  qualms,) 
will  try  our  hand. 

Attempting,  then,  however  crudely,  a  basic  model  or  portrait  of 
personality  for  general  use  for  the  manliness  of  the  States,  (and 
doubtless  that  is  most  useful  which  is  most  simple  and  comprehensive 
for  all,  and  toned  low  enough,)  we  should  prepare  the  canvas  well 
beforehand.  Parentage  must  consider  itself  in  advance.  (Will  the 
time  hasten  when  fatherhood  and  motherhood  shall  become  a  science 
—  and  the  noblest  science  ?)  To  our  model,  a  clear-blooded, 
strong-fibred  physique,  is  indispensable  ;  the  questions  of  food,  drink, 
air,  exercise,  assimilation,  digestion,  can  never  be  intermitted.  Out 
of  these  we  descry  a  well-begotten  selfhood  —  in  youth,  fresh, 
ardent,  emotional,  aspiring,  full  of  adventure ;  at  maturity,  brave, 
perceptive,  under  control,  neither  too  talkative  nor  too  reticent, 
neither  flippant  nor  sombre  ;  of  the  bodily  figure,  the  movements 
easy,  the  complexion  showing  the  best  blood,  somewhat  flush' d, 
breast  expanded,  an  erect  attitude,  a  voice  whose  sound  outvies 
music,  eyes  of  calm  and  steady  gaze,  yet  capable  also  of  flashing  — and 
a  general  presence  that  holds  its  own  in  the  company  of  the  highest. 
(For  it  is  native  personality,  and  that  alone,  that  endows  a  man  to 
stand  before  presidents  or  generals,  or  in  any  distinguish' d  collection, 
with  aplomb  —  and  not  culture,  or  any  knowledge  or  intellect  whatever.) 


226  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

With  regard  to  the  mental-educational  part  of  our  model,  enlarge 
ment  of  intellect,  stores  of  cephalic  knowledge,  &c.,  the  concentra 
tion  thitherward  of  all  the  customs  of  our  age,  especially  in  America, 
is  so  overweening,  and  provides  so  fully  for  that  part,  that,  important 
and  necessary  as  it  is,  it  really  needs  nothing  from  us  here  —  except, 
indeed,  a  phrase  of  warning  and  restraint.  Manners,  costumes,  too, 
though  important,  we  need  not  dwell  upon  here.  Like  beauty, 
grace  of  motion,  &c.,  they  are  results.  Causes,  original  things, 
being  attended  to,  the  right  manners  unerringly  follow.  Much  is 
said,  among  artists,  of  "  the  grand  style,"  as  if  it  were  a  thing  by 
itself.  When  a  man,  artist  or  whoever,  has  health,  pride,  acuteness, 
noble  aspirations,  he  has  the  motive-elements  of  the  grandest  style. 
The  rest  is  but  manipulation,  (yet  that  is  no  small  matter. ) 

Leaving  still  unspecified  several  sterling  parts  of  any  model  fit  for 
the  future  personality  of  America,  I  must  not  fail,  again  and  ever,  to 
pronounce  myself  on  one,  probably  the  least  attended  to  in  modern 
times  —  a  hiatus,  indeed,  threatening  its  gloomiest  consequences  after 
us.  I  mean  the  simple,  unsophisticated  Conscience,  the  primary 
moral  element.  If  I  were  asked  to  specify  in  what  quarter  lie  the 
grounds  of  darkest  dread,  respecting  the  America  of  our  hopes,  I 
should  have  to  point  to  this  particular.  I  should  demand  the  invari 
able  application  to  individuality,  this  day  and  any  day,  of  that  old, 
ever-true  plumb-rule  of  persons,  eras,  nations.  Our  triumphant 
modern  civilizee,  with  his  all-schooling  and  his  wondrous  appliances, 
will  still  show  himself  but  an  amputation  while  this  deficiency  remains. 
Beyond,  (assuming  a  more  hopeful  tone,)  the  vertebration  of  the 
manly  and  womanly  personalism  of  our  western  world,  can  only  be, 
and  is,  indeed,  to  be,  (I  hope,)  its  all-penetrating  Religiousness. 

The  ripeness  of  Religion  is  doubtless  to  be  looked  for  in  this  field  of 
individuality,  and  is  a  result  that  no  organization  or  church  can  ever 
achieve.  As  history  is  poorly  retain' d  by  what  the  technists  call  his 
tory,  and  is  not  given  out  from  their  pages,  except  the  learner  has  in 
himself  the  sense  of  the  well-wrapt,  never  yet  written,  perhaps  im 
possible  to  be  written,  history  —  so  Religion,  although  casually 
arrested,  and,  after  a  fashion,  preserv'd  in  the  churches  and  creeds, 
does  not  depend  at  all  upon  them,  but  is  a  part  of  the  identified  soul, 
which,  when  greatest,  knows  not  bibles  in  the  old  way,  but  in  new 
ways  —  the  identified  soul,  which  can  really  confront  Religion  when 
it  extricates  itself  entirely  from  the  churches,  and  not  before. 

Personalism  fuses  this,  and  favors  it.  I  should  say,  indeed,  that 
only  in  the  perfect  uncontamination  and  solitariness  of  individuality 
may  the  spirituality  of  religion  positively  come  forth  at  all.  Only 
here,  and  on  such  terms,  the  meditation,  the  devout  ecstasy,  the  soar 
ing  flight.  Only  here,  communion  with  the  mysteries,  the  eternal 


COLLECT  227 

problems,  whence?  whither?  Alone,  and  identity,  and  the  mood  — 
and  the  soul  emerges,  and  all  statements,  churches,  sermons,  melt 
away  like  vapors.  Alone,  and  silent  thought  and  awe,  and  aspiration 
—  and  then  the  interior  consciousness,  like  a  hitherto  unseen  inscrip 
tion,  in  magic  ink,  beams  out  its  wondrous  lines  to  the  sense.  Bibles 
may  convey,  and  priests  expound,  but  it  is  exclusively  for  the  noiseless 
operation  of  one's  isolated  Self,  to  enter  the  pure  ether  of  veneration, 
reach  the  divine  levels,  and  commune  with  the  unutterable. 

To  practically  enter  into  politics  is  an  important  part  of  American 
personalism.  To  every  young  man,  north  and  south,  earnestly  study 
ing  these  things,  I  should  here,  as  an  offset  to  what  I  have  said  in 
former  pages,  now  also  say,  that  may-be  to  views  of  very  largest 
scope,  after  all,  perhaps  the  political,  (perhaps  the  literary  and  sociolog 
ical,)  America  goes  best  about  its  development  its  own  way  —  some 
times,  to  temporary  sight,  appaling  enough.  It  is  the  fashion  among 
dillettants  and  fops  (perhaps  I  myself  am  not  guiltless,)  to  decry  the 
whole  formulation  of  the  active  politics  of  America,  as  beyond  redemp 
tion,  and  to  be  carefully  kept  away  from.  See  you  that  you  do  not 
fall  into  this  error.  America,  it  may  be,  is  doing  very  well  upon  the 
whole,  notwithstanding  these  antics  of  the  parties  and  their  leaders, 
these  half-brain' d  nominees,  the  many  ignorant  ballots,  and  many 
elected  failures  and  blatherers.  It  is  the  dillettants,  and  all  who  shirk 
their  duty,  who  are  not  doing  well.  As  for  you,  I  advise  you  to 
enter  more  strongly  yet  into  politics.  I  advise  every  young  man  to  do 
so.  Always  inform  yourself;  always  do  the  best  you  can;  always 
vote.  Disengage  yourself  from  parties.  They  have  been  useful,  and 
to  some  extent  remain  so;  but  the  floating,  uncommitted  electors, 
farmers,  clerks,  mechanics,  the  masters  of  parties  —  watching  aloof, 
inclining  victory  this  side  or  that  side  —  such  are  the  ones  most  needed, 
present  and  future.  For  America,  if  eligible,  at  all  to  downfall  and 
ruin,  is  eligible  within  herself,  not  without;  for  I  see  clearly  that  the 
combined  foreign  world  could  not  beat  her  down.  But  these  savage, 
wolfish  parties  alarm  me.  Owning  no  law  but  their  own  will,  more 
and  more  combative,  less  and  less  tolerant  of  the  idea  of  ensemble  and 
of  equal  brotherhood,  the  perfect  equality  of  the  States,  the  ever-over 
arching  American  ideas,  it  behooves  you  to  convey  yourself  implicitly 
to  no  party,  nor  submit  blindly  to  their  dictators,  but  steadily  hold 
yourself  judge  and  master  over  all  of  them. 

So  much,  (hastily  toss'd  together,  and  leaving  far  more  unsaid,)  for 
an  ideal,  or  intimations  of  an  ideal,  toward  American  manhood.  But 
the  other  sex,  in  our  land,  requires  at  least  a  basis  of  suggestion. 

I  have  seen  a  young  American  woman,  one  of  a  large  family  of 
daughters,  who,  some  years  since,  migrated  from  her  meagre  country 
home  to  one  of  the  northern  cities,  to  gain  her  own  support.  She 


228  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

soon  became  an  expert  seamstress,  but  finding  the  employment  too 
confining  for  health  and  comfort,  she  went  boldly  to  work  for  others, 
to  house-keep,  cook,  clean,  &c.  After  trying  several  places,  she  fell 
upon  one  where  she  was  suited.  She  has  told  me  that  she  finds 
nothing  degrading  in  her  position ;  it  is  not  inconsistent  with  personal 
dignity,  self-respect,  and  the  respect  of  others.  She  confers  benefits 
and  receives  them.  She  has  good  health  ;  her  presence  itself  is  heal  thy 
and  bracing  ;  her  character  is  unstain'd  ;  she  has  made  herself  under 
stood,  and  preserves  her  independence,  and  has  been  able  to  help  her 
parents,  and  educate  and  get  places  for  her  sisters  ;  and  her  course  of 
life  is  not  without  opportunities  for  mental  improvement,  and  of  much 
quiet,  uncosting  happiness  and  love. 

I  have  seen  another  woman  who,  from  taste  and  necessity  con 
join' d,  has  gone  into  practical  affairs,  carries  on  a  mechanical  business, 
partly  works  at  it  herself,  dashes  out  more  and  more  into  real  hardy 
life,  is  not  abash' d  by  the  coarseness  of  the  contact,  knows  how  to  be 
firm  and  silent  at  the  same  time,  holds  her  own  with  unvarying  cool 
ness  and  decorum,  and  will  compare,  any  day,  with  superior  car 
penters,  farmers,  and  even  boatmen  and  drivers.  For  all  that,  she 
has  not  lost  the  charm  of  the  womanly  nature,  but  preserves  and  bears 
it  fully,  though  through  such  rugged  presentation. 

Then  there  is  the  wife  of  a  mechanic,  mother  of  two  children,  a 
woman  of  merely  passable  English  education,  but  of  fine  wit,  with  all 
her  sex's  grace  and  intuitions,  who  exhibits,  indeed,  such  a  noble 
female  personality,  that  I  am  fain  to  record  it  here.  Never  abnegating 
her  own  proper  independence,  but  always  genially  preserving  it,  and 
what  belongs  to  it — cooking,  washing,  child-nursing,  house-tending  — 
she  beams  sunshine  out  of  all  these  duties,  and  makes  them  illustrious. 
Physiologically  sweet  and  sound,  loving  work,  practical,  she  yet  knows 
that  there  are  intervals,  however  few,  devoted  to  recreation,  music, 
leisure,  hospitality  —  and  affords  such  intervals.  Whatever  she  does, 
and  wherever  she  is,  that  charm,  that  indescribable  perfume  of  genuine 
womanhood  attends  her,  goes  with  her,  exhales  from  her,  which  be 
longs  of  right  to  all  the  sex,  and  is,  or  ought  to  be,  the  invariable 
atmosphere  and  common  aureola  of  old  as  well  as  young. 

My  dear  mother  once  described  to  me  a  resplendent  person,  down 
on  Long  Island,  whom  she  knew  in  early  days.  She  was  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Peacemaker.  She  was  well  toward  eighty  years  old, 
of  happy  and  sunny  temperament,  had  always  lived  on  a  farm,  and 
was  very  neighborly,  sensible  and  discreet,  an  invariable  and  welcom'd 
favorite,  especially  with  young  married  women.  She  had  numerous 
children  and  grandchildren.  She  was  uneducated,  but  possess' d  a 
native  dignity.  She  had  come  to  be  a  tacitly  agreed  upon  domestic 
regulator,  judge,  settler  of  difficulties,  shepherdess,  and  reconciler  in  the 


COLLECT  229 

land.  She  was  a  sight  to  draw  near  and  look  upon,  with  her  large 
figure,  her  profuse  snow-white  hair,  (uncoil'd  by  any  head-dress  or 
cap,)  dark  eyes,  clear  complexion,  sweet  breath,  and  peculiar  personal 
magnetism. 

The  foregoing  portraits,  I  admit,  are  frightfully  out  of  line  from 
these  imported  models  of  womanly  personality  —  the  stock  feminine 
characters  of  the  current  novelists,  or  of  the  foreign  court  poems, 
(Ophelias,  Enids,  princesses,  or  ladies  of  one  thing  or  another,) 
which  fill  the  envying  dreams  of  so  many  poor  girls,  and  are  accepted 
by  our  men,  too,  as  supreme  ideals  of  feminine  excellence  to  be  sought 
after.  But  I  present  mine  just  for  a  change. 

Then  there  are  mutterings,  (we  will  not  now  stop  to  heed  them 
here,  but  they  must  be  heeded,)  of  something  more  revolutionary. 
The  day  is  coming  when  the  deep  questions  of  woman's  entrance 
amid  the  arenas  of  practical  life,  politics,  the  suffrage,  &c.,  will  not 
only  be  argued  all  around  us,  but  may  be  put  to  decision,  and  real 
experiment. 

Of  course,  in  these  States,  for  both  man  and  woman,  we  must 
entirely  recast  the  types  of  highest  personality  from  what  the  oriental, 
feudal,  ecclesiastical  worlds  bequeath  us,  and  which  yet  possess  the 
imaginative  and  esthetic  fields  of  the  United  States,  pictorial  and  melo 
dramatic,  not  without  use  as  studies,  but  making  sad  work,  and  form 
ing  a  strange  anachronism  upon  the  scenes  and  exigencies  around  us. 
Of  course,  the  old  undying  elements  remain.  The  task  is,  to  success 
fully  adjust  them  to  new  combinations,  our  own  days.  Nor  is  this  so 
incredible.  I  can  conceive  a  community,  to-day  and  here,  in  which, 
on  a  sufficient  scale,  the  perfect  personalities,  without  noise  meet ;  say 
in  some  pleasant  western  settlement  or  town,  where  a  couple  of  hun 
dred  best  men  and  women,  of  ordinary  worldly  status,  have  by  luck 
been  drawn  together,  with  nothing  extra  of  genius  or  wealth,  but  vir 
tuous,  chaste,  industrious,  cheerful,  resolute,  friendly  and  devout.  I 
can  conceive  such  a  community  organized  in  running  order,  powers 
judiciously  delegated  —  farming,  building,  trade,  courts,  mails,  schools, 
elections,  all  attended  to ;  and  then  the  rest  of  life,  the  main  thing, 
freely  branching  and  blossoming  in  each  individual,  and  bearing  golden 
fruit.  I  can  see  there,  in  every  young  and  old  man,  after  his  kind, 
and  in  every  woman  after  hers,  a  true  personality,  develop' d,  exercised 
proportionately  in  body,  mind,  and  spirit.  I  can  imagine  this  case  as 
one  not  necessarily  rare  or  difficult,  but  in  buoyant  accordance  with 
the  municipal  and  general  requirements  of  our  times.  And  I  can 
realize  in  it  the  culmination  of  something  better  than  any  stereotyped 
eclat  of  history  or  poems.  Perhaps,  unsung,  undramatized,  unput  in 
essays  or  biographies  —  perhaps  even  some  such  community  already 
exists,  in  Ohio,  Illinois,  Missouri,  or  somewhere,  practically  fulfilling 


230  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

itself,  and  thus  outvying,  in  cheapest  vulgar  life,  all  that  has  been 
hitherto  shown  in  best  ideal  pictures. 

In  short,  and  to  sum  up,  America,  betaking  herself  to  formative 
action,  (as  it  is  about  time  for  more  solid  achievement,  and  less  windy 
promise,)  must,  for  her  purposes,  cease  to  recognize  a  theory  of  char 
acter  grown  of  feudal  aristocracies,  or  form'd  by  merely  literary  stan 
dards,  or  from  any  ultramarine,  full-dress  formulas  of  culture,  polish, 
caste,  &c.,  and  must  sternly  promulgate  her  own  new  standard,  yet 
old  enough,  and  accepting  the  old,  the  perennial  elements,  and  com 
bining  them  into  groups,  unities,  appropriate  to  the  modern,  the  demo 
cratic,  the  west,  and  to  the  practical  occasions  and  needs  of  our  own 
cities,  and  of  the  agricultural  regions.  Ever  the  most  precious  in  the 
common.  Ever  the  fresh  breeze  of  field,  or  hill,  or  lake,  is  more  than 
any  palpitation  of  fans,  though  of  ivory,  and  redolent  with  perfume ; 
and  the  air  is  more  than  the  costliest  perfumes. 

And  now,  for  fear  of  mistake,  we  may  not  intermit  to  beg  our 
absolution  from  all  that  genuinely  is,  or  goes  along  with,  even  Culture. 
Pardon  us,  venerable  shade!  if  we  have  seem'd  to  speak  lightly  of 
your  office.  The  whole  civilization  of  the  earth,  we  know,  is  yours, 
with  all  the  glory  and  the  light  thereof.  It  is,  indeed,  in  your  own 
spirit,  and  seeking  to  tally  the  loftiest  teachings  of  it,  that  we  aim  these 
poor  utterances.  For  you,  too,  mighty  minister!  know  that  there  is 
something  greater  than  you,  namely,  the  fresh,  eternal  qualities  of 
Being.  From  them,  and  by  them,  as  you,  at  your  best,  we  too  evoke 
the  last,  the  needed  help,  to  vitalize  our  country  and  our  days.  Thus 
we  pronounce  not  so  much  against  the  principle  of  culture ;  we  only 
supervise  it,  and  promulge  along  with  it,  as  deep,  perhaps  a  deeper, 
principle.  As  we  have  shown  the  New  World  including  in  itself  the 
all-leveling  aggregate  of  democracy,  we  show  it  also  including  the  all- 
varied,  all-permitting,  all-free  theorem  of  individuality,  and  erecting 
therefor  a  lofty  and  hitherto  unoccupied  framework  or  platform,  broad 
enough  for  all,  eligible  to  every  farmer  and  mechanic  —  to  the  female 
equally  with  the  male  —  a  towering  selfhood,  not  physically  perfect 
only — not  satisfied  with  the  mere  mind's  and  learning's  stores,  but 
religious,  possessing  the  idea  of  the  infinite,  (rudder  and  compass  sure 
amid  this  troublous  voyage,  o'er  darkest,  wildest  wave,  through 
stormiest  wind,  of  man's  or  nation's  progress)  — realizing,  above  the 
rest,  that  known  humanity,  in  deepest  sense,  is  fair  adhesion  to  itself, 
for  purposes  beyond  —  and  that,  finally,  the  personality  of  mortal  life 
is  most  important  with  reference  to  the  immortal,  the  unknown,  the 
spiritual,  the  only  permanently  real,  which  as  the  ocean  waits  for  and 
receives  the  rivers,  waits  for  us  each  and  all. 

Much  is  there,  yet,  demanding  line  and  outline  in  our  Vistas,  not 
only  on  these  topics,  but  others  quite  unwritten.  Jndeed,  we  could 


COLLECT  231 

talk  the  matter,  and  expand  it,  through  lifetime.  But  it  is  necessary 
to  return  to  our  original  premises.  In  view  of  them,  we  have  again 
pointedly  to  confess  that  all  the  objective  grandeurs  of  the  world,  for 
highest  purposes,  yield  themselves  up,  and  depend  on  mentality  alone. 
Here,  and  here  only,  all  balances,  all  rests.  For  the  mind,  which 
alone  builds  the  permanent  edifice,  haughtily  builds  it  to  itself.  By  it, 
with  what  follows  it,  are  convey 'd  to  mortal  sense  the  culminations  of 
the  materialistic,  the  known,  and  a  prophecy  of  the  unknown.  To 
take  expression,  to  incarnate,  to  endow  a  literature  with  grand  and 
archetypal  models  —  to  fill  with  pride  and  love  the  utmost  capacity, 
and  to  achieve  spiritual  meanings,  and  suggest  the  future  —  these,  and 
these  only,  satisfy  the  soul.  We  must  not  say  one  word  against  real 
materials;  but  the  wise  know  that  they  do  not  become  real  till  touched 
by  emotions,  the  mind.  Did  we  call  the  latter  imponderable  ?  Ah, 
let  us  rather  proclaim  that  the  slightest  song-tune,  the  countless 
ephemera  of  passions  arous'd  by  orators  and  tale-tellers,  are  more 
dense,  more  weighty  than  the  engines  there  in  the  great  factories, 
or  the  granite  blocks  in  their  foundations. 

Approaching  thus  the  momentous  spaces,  and  considering  with 
reference  to  a  new  and  greater  personalism,  the  needs  and  possibilities 
of  American  imaginative  literature,  through  the  medium-light  of  what 
we  have  already  broach*  d,  it  will  at  once  be  appreciated  that  a  vast 
gulf  of  difference  separates  the  present  accepted  condition  of  these  spaces, 
inclusive  of  what  is  floating  in  them,  from  any  condition  adjusted  to, 
or  fit  for,  the  world,  the  America,  there  sought  to  be  indicated,  and 
the  copious  races  of  complete  men  and  women,  along  these  Vistas 
crudely  outlined.  It  is,  in  some  sort,  no  less  a  difference  than  lies 
between  that  long-continued  nebular  state  and  vagueness  of  the  astro 
nomical  worlds,  compared  with  the  subsequent  state,  the  definitely- 
form'd  worlds  themselves,  duly  compacted,  clustering  in  systems,  hung 
up  there,  chandeliers  of  the  universe,  beholding  and  mutually  lit  by  each 
other's  lights,  serving  for  ground  of  all  substantial  foothold,  all  vulgar 
uses  —  yet  serving  still  more  as  an  undying  chain  and  echelon  of 
spiritual  proofs  and  shows.  A  boundless  field  to  fill!  A  new  creation, 
with  needed  orbic  works  launch* d  forth,  to  revolve  in  free  and  lawful 
circuits  —  to  move,  self-poised,  through  the  ether,  and  shine  like 
heaven's  own  suns!  With  such,  and  nothing  less,  we  suggest  that 
New  World  literature,  fit  to  rise  upon,  cohere,  and  signalize  in  time, 
these  States. 

What,  however,  do  we  more  definitely  mean  by  New  World  litera 
ture  ?  Are  we  not  doing  well  enough  here  already  ?  Are  not  the 
United  States  this  day  busily  using,  working,  more  printer's  type, 
more  presses,  than  any  other  country  ?  uttering  and  absorbing  more 
publications  than  any  other  ?  Do  not  our  publishers  fatten  quicker  and 


232  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

deeper  ?  (helping  themselves,  under  shelter  of  a  delusive  and  sneaking 
law,  or  rather  absence  of  law,  to  most  of  their  forage,  poetical,  picto 
rial,  historical,  romantic,  even  comic,  without  money  and  without 
price  —  and  fiercely  resisting  the  timidest  proposal  to  pay  for  it. ) 
Many  will  come  under  this  delusion  —  but  my  purpose  is  to  dispel  it. 
I  say  that  a  nation  may  hold  and  circulate  rivers  and  oceans  of  very 
readable  print,  journals,  magazines,  novels,  library-books,  "poetry," 
&c. —  such  as  the  States  to-day  possess  and  circulate —  of  unquestion 
able  aid  and  value  —  hundreds  of  new  volumes  annually  composed  and 
brought  out  here,  respectable  enough,  indeed  unsurpassed  in  smartness 
and  erudition — with  further  hundreds,  or  rather  millions,  (as  by  free 
forage  or  theft  aforemention'd,)  also  thrown  into  the  market  —  and 
yet,  all  the  while,  the  said  nation,  land,  strictly  speaking,  may  possess 
no  literature  at  all. 

Repeating  our  inquiry,  what,  then,  do  we  mean  by  real  literature  ? 
especially  the  democratic  literature  of  the  future  ?  Hard  questions  to 
meet.  The  clues  are  inferential,  and  turn  us  to  the  past.  At  best, 
we  can  only  offer  suggestions,  comparisons,  circuits. 

It  must  still  be  reiterated,  as,  for  the  purpose  of  these  memoranda, 
the  deep  lesson  of  history  and  time,  that  all  else  in  the  contributions  of 
a  nation  or  age,  through  its  politics,  materials,  heroic  personalities, 
military  eclat,  &c.,  remains  crude,  and  defers,  in  any  close  and  thor 
ough-going  estimate,  until  vitalized  by  national,  original  archetypes  in 
literature.  They  only  put  the  nation  in  form,  finally  tell  anything  — 
prove,  complete  anything  —  perpetuate  anything.  Without  doubt, 
some  of  the  richest  and  most  powerful  and  populous  communities  of 
the  antique  world,  and  some  of  the  grandest  personalities  and  events, 
have,  to  after  and  present  times,  left  themselves  entirely  unbequeath'd. 
Doubtless,  greater  than  any  that  have  come  down  to  us,  were  among 
those  lands,  heroisms,  persons,  that  have  not  come  down  to  us  at  all, 
even  by  name,  date,  or  location.  Others  have  arrived  safely,  as  from 
voyages  over  wide,  century-stretching  seas.  The  little  ships,  the 
miracles  that  have  buoy'd  them,  and  by  incredible  chances  safely  con 
vey 'd  them,  (or  the  best  of  them,  their  meaning  and  essence,)  over 
long  wastes,  darkness,  lethargy,  ignorance,  &c.,  have  been  a  few  in 
scriptions —  a  few  immortal  compositions,  small  in  size,  yet  compass 
ing  what  measureless  values  of  reminiscence,  contemporary  portraitures, 
manners,  idioms  and  beliefs,  with  deepest  inference,  hint  and  thought, 
to  tie  and  touch  forever  the  old,  new  body,  and  the  old,  new  soul! 
These  !  and  still  these !  bearing  the  freight  so  dear  —  dearer  than 
pride — dearer  than  love.  All  the  best  experience  of  humanity,  folded, 
saved,  freighted  to  us  here.  Some  of  these  tiny  ships  we  call  Old  and 
New  Testament,  Homer,  Eschylus,  Plato,  Juvenal,  &c.  Precious 
minims  !  I  think,  if  we  were  forced  to  choose,  rather  than  have  you, 


COLLECT  233 

and  the  likes  of  you,  and  what  belongs  to,  and  has  grown  of  you, 
blotted  out  and  gone,  we  could  better  afford,  appaling  as  that  would 
be,  to  lose  all  actual  ships,  this  day  fasten' d  by  wharf,  or  floating  on 
wave,  and  see  them,  with  all  their  cargoes,  scuttled  and  sent  to  the 
bottom. 

Gather' d  by  geniuses  of  city,  race  or  age,  and  put  by  them  in 
highest  of  art's  forms,  namely,  the  literary  form,  the  peculiar  combina 
tions  and  the  outshows  of  that  city,  age,  or  race,  its  particular  modes 
of  the  universal  attributes  and  passions,  its  faiths,  heroes,  lovers  and 
gods,  wars,  traditions,  struggles,  crimes,  emotions,  joys,  (or  the  subtle 
spirit  of  these,)  having  been  pass'd  on  to  us  to  illumine  our  own  self 
hood,  and  its  experiences  —  what  they  supply,  indispensable  and 
highest,  if  taken  away,  nothing  else  in  all  the  world's  boundless  store 
houses  could  make  up  to  us,  or  ever  again  return. 

For  us,  along  the  great  highways  of  time,  those  monuments  stand  — 
those  forms  of  majesty  and  beauty.  For  us  those  beacons  burn  through 
all  the  nights.  Unknown  Egyptians,  graving  hieroglyphs  ;  Hindus, 
with  hymn  and  apothegm  and  endless  epic;  Hebrew  prophet,  with 
spirituality,  as  in  flashes  of  lightning,  conscience  like  red-hot  iron, 
plaintive  songs  and  screams  of  vengeance  for  tyrannies  and  enslave 
ment  ;  Christ,  with  bent  head,  brooding  love  and  peace,  like  a  dove  ; 
Greek,  creating  eternal  shapes  of  physical  and  esthetic  proportion ; 
Roman,  lord  of  satire,  the  sword,  and  the  codex;  —  of  the  figures, 
some  far  off  and  veiPd,  others  nearer  and  visible;  Dante,  stalking  with 
lean  form,  nothing  but  fibre,  not  a  grain  of  superfluous  flesh  ;  Angelo, 
and  the  great  painters,  architects,  musicians ;  rich  Shakspere,  luxuriant 
as  the  sun,  artist  and  singer  of  feudalism  in  its  sunset,  with  all  the  gor 
geous  colors,  owner  thereof,  and  using  them  at  will ;  and  so  to  such  as 
German  Kant  and  Hegel,  where  they,  though  near  us,  leaping  over 
the  ages,  sit  again,  impassive,  imperturbable,  like  the  Egyptian  gods. 
Of  these,  and  the  like  of  these,  is  it  too  much,  indeed,  to  return  to 
our  favorite  figure,  and  view  them  as  orbs  and  systems  of  orbs,  moving 
in  free  paths  in  the  spaces  of  that  other  heaven,  the  kosmic  intellect, 
the  soul  ? 

Ye  powerful  and  resplendent  ones  !  ye  were,  in  your  atmospheres, 
grown  not  for  America,  but  rather  for  her  foes,  the  feudal  and  the 
old  —  while  our  genius  is  democratic  and  modern.  Yet  could  ye, 
indeed,  but  breathe  your  breath  of  life  into  our  New  World's  nostrils 
—  not  to  enslave  us,  as  now,  but,  for  our  needs,  to  breed  a  spirit  like 
your  own  — perhaps,  (dare  we  to  say  it  ?)  to  dominate,  even  destroy, 
what  you  yourselves  have  left  !  On  your  plane,  and  no  less,  but  even 
higher  and  wider,  must  we  mete  and  measure  for  to-day  and  here.  I 
demand  races  of  orbic  bards,  with  unconditional  uncompromising  sway. 
Come  forth,  sweet  democratic  despots  of  the  west ! 


234  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

By  points  like  these  we,  in  reflection,  token  what  we  mean  by  any 
land's  or  people's  genuine  literature.  And  thus  compared  and  tested, 
judging  amid  the  influence  of  loftiest  products  only,  what  do  our  current 
copious  fields  of  print,  covering  in  manifold  forms,  the  United  States, 
better,  for  an  analogy,  present,  than,  as  in  certain  regions  of  the  sea, 
those  spreading,  undulating  masses  of  squid,  through  which  the  whale 
swimming,  with  head  half  out,  feeds  ? 

Not  but  that  doubtless  our  current  so-called  literature,  (like  an  end 
less  supply  of  small  coin,)  performs  a  certain  service,  and  may-be,  too, 
the  service  needed  for  the  time,  (the  preparation-service,  as  children 
learn  to  spell.)  Everybody  reads,  and  truly  nearly  everybody  writes, 
either  books,  or  for  the  magazines  or  journals.  The  matter  has  mag 
nitude,  too,  after  a  sort.  But  is  it  really  advancing  ?  or,  has  it  advanced 
for  a  long  while  ?  There  is  something  impressive  about  the  huge  edi 
tions  of  the  dailies  and  weeklies,  the  mountain-stacks  of  white  paper 
piled  in  the  press-vaults,  and  the  proud,  crashing,  ten-cylinder  presses, 
which  I  can  stand  and  watch  any  time  by  the  half  hour.  Then, 
(though  the  States  in  the  field  of  imagination  present  not  a  single  first- 
class  work,  not  a  single  great  literatus,)  the  main  objects,  to  amuse,  to 
titillate,  to  pass  away  time,  to  circulate  the  news,  and  rumors  of  news, 
to  rhyme  and  read  rhyme,  are  yet  attain' d,  and  on  a  scale  of  infinity. 
To-day,  in  books,  in  the  rivalry  of  writers,  especially  novelists,  suc 
cess,  (so-call'd,)  is  for  him  or  her  who  strikes  the  mean  flat  average, 
the  sensational  appetite  for  stimulus,  incident,  persiflage,  &c.,  and  de 
picts,  to  the  common  calibre,  sensual,  exterior  life.  To  such,  or  the 
luckiest  of  them,  as  we  see,  the  audiences  are  limitless  and  profitable  ; 
but  they  cease  presently.  While  this  day,  or  any  day,  to  workmen 
portraying  interior  or  spiritual  life,  the  audiences  were  limited,  and 
often  laggard  —  but  they  last  forever. 

Compared  with  the  past,  our  modern  science  soars,  and  our  journals 
serve  —  but  ideal  and  even  ordinary  romantic  literature,  does  not,  I 
think,  substantially  advance.  Behold  the  prolific  brood  of  the  con 
temporary  novel,  magazine-tale,  theatre-play,  &c.  The  same  endless 
thread  of  tangled  and  superlative  love-story,  inherited,  apparently  from 
the  Amadises  and  Palmerins  of  the  I3th,  I4th,  and  I  5th  centuries  over 
there  in  Europe.  The  costumes  and  associations  brought  down  to 
date,  the  seasoning  hotter  and  more  varied,  the  dragons  and  ogres  left 
out  —  but  the  thing,  I  should  say,  has  not  advanced  —  is  just  as  sensa 
tional,  just  as  strain' d  —  remains  about  the  same,  nor  more,  nor  less. 

What  is  the  reason  our  time,  our  lands,  that  we  see  no  fresh  local 
courage,  sanity,  of  our  own  —  the  Mississippi,  stalwart  Western  men, 
real  mental  and  physical  facts,  Southerners,  &c.,  in  the  body  of  our 
literature  ?  especially  the  poetic  part  of  it.  But  always,  instead,  a 
parcel  of  dandies  and  ennuyees,  dapper  little  gentlemen  from  abroad, 


COLLECT  235 

who  flood  us  with  their  thin  sentiment  of  parlors,  parasols,  piano-songs, 
tinkling  rhymes,  the  five-hundredth  importation  —  or  whimpering  and 
crying  about  something,  chasing  one  aborted  conceit  after  another,  and 
forever  occupied  in  dyspeptic  amours  with  dyspeptic  women.  While, 
current  and  novel,  the  grandest  events  and  revolutions,  and  stormiest 
passions  of  history,  are  crossing  to-day  with  unparallePd  rapidity  and 
magnificence  over  the  stages  of  our  own  and  all  the  continents,  offering 
new  materials,  opening  new  vistas,  with  largest  needs,  inviting  the 
daring  launching  forth  of  conceptions  in  literature,  inspired  by  them, 
soaring  in  highest  regions,  serving  art  in  its  highest,  (which  is  only  the 
other  name  for  serving  God,  and  serving  humanity,)  where  is  the  man 
of  letters,  where  is  the  book,  with  any  nobler  aim  than  to  follow  in 
the  old  track,  repeat  what  has  been  said  before  —  and,  as  its  utmost 
triumph,  sell  well,  and  be  erudite  or  elegant  ? 

Mark  the  roads,  the  processes,  through  which  these  States  have 
arrived,  standing  easy,  henceforth  ever-equal,  ever-compact,  in  their 
range  to-day.  European  adventures  ?  the  most  antique  ?  Asiatic  or 
African  ?  old  history  —  miracles  —  romances  ?  Rather,  our  own  un- 
question'd  facts.  They  hasten,  incredible,  blazing  bright  as  fire. 
From  the  deeds  and  days  of  Columbus  down  to  the  present,  and  in 
cluding  the  present  —  and  especially  the  late  secession  war  —  when  I 
con  them,  I  feel,  every  leaf,  like  stopping  to  see  if  I  have  not  made  a 
mistake,  and  fall'n  on  the  splendid  figments  of  some  dream.  But  it  is 
no  dream.  We  stand,  live,  move,  in  the  huge  flow  of  our  age's  ma 
terialism —  in  its  spirituality.  We  have  had  founded  for  us  the  most 
positive  of  lands.  The  founders  have  pass'd  to  other  spheres  —  but 
what  are  these  terrible  duties  they  have  left  us  ? 

Their  politics  the  United  States  have,  in  my  opinion,  with  all 
their  faults,  already  substantially  establish*  d,  for  good,  on  their  own 
native,  sound,  long-vista' d  principles,  never  to  be  overturn' d,  offering 
a  sure  basis  for  all  the  rest.  With  that,  iheir  future  religious  forms, 
sociology,  literature,  teachers,  schools,  costumes,  &c.,  are  of  course 
to  make  a  compact  whole,  uniform,  on  tallying  principles.  For  how 
can  we  remain,  divided,  contradicting  ourselves,  this  way  ?*  I  say 
we  can  only  attain  harmony  and  stability  by  consulting  ensemble  and 
the  ethic  purports,  and  faithfully  building  upon  them.  For  the  New 

*  Note,  to-day,  an  instructive,  curious  spectacle  and  conflict.  Science, 
(twin,  in  its  fields,  of  Democracy  in  its)  —  Science,  testing  absolutely 
all  thoughts,  all  works,  has  already  burst  well  upon  the  world  —  a  sun, 
mounting,  most  illuminating,  most  glorious  —  surely  never  again  to  set. 
But  against  it,  deeply  entrench' d,  holding  possession,  yet  remains,  (not  only 
through  the  churches  and  schools,  but  by  imaginative  literature,  and  unre- 
generate  poetry,)  the  fossil  theology  of  the  mythic-materialistic,  supersti 
tious,  untaught  and  credulous,  fable-loving,  primitive  ages  of  humanity. 


236  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

World,  indeed,  after  two  grand  stages  of  preparation-strata,  I  per 
ceive  that  now  a  third  stage,  being  ready  for,  (and  without  which 
the  other  two  were  useless,)  with  unmistakable  signs  appears.  The 
First  stage  was  the  planning  and  putting  on  record  the  political  foun 
dation  rights  of  immense  masses  of  people  —  indeed  all  people  —  in 
the  organization  of  republican  National,  State,  and  municipal  govern 
ments,  all  constructed  with  reference  to  each,  and  each  to  all.  This 
is  the  American  programme,  not  for  classes,  but  for  universal  man, 
and  is  embodied  in  the  compacts  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
and,  as  it  began  and  has  now  grown,  with  its  amendments,  the  Fed 
eral  Constitution  —  and  in  the  State  governments,  with  all  their 
interiors,  and  with  general  suffrage  ;  those  having  the  sense  not  only 
of  what  is  in  themselves,  but  that  their  certain  several  things  started, 
planted,  hundreds  of  others  in  the  same  direction  duly  arise  and 
follow.  The  Second  stage  relates  to  material  prosperity,  wealth, 
produce,  labor-saving  machines,  iron,  cotton,  local,  State  and  con 
tinental  railways,  intercommunication  and  trade  with  all  lands, 
steamships,  mining,  general  employment,  organization  of  great  cities, 
cheap  appliances  for  comfort,  numberless  technical  schools,  books, 
newspapers,  a  currency  for  money  circulation,  &c.  The  Third 
stage,  rising  out  of  the  previous  ones,  to  make  them  and  all  illus 
trious,  I,  now,  for  one,  promulge,  announcing  a  native  expression- 
spirit,  getting  into  form,  adult,  and  through  mentality,  for  these 
States,  self-contain*  d,  different  from  others,  more  expansive,  more 
rich  and  free,  to  be  evidenced  by  original  authors  and  poets  to  come, 
by  American  personalities,  plenty  of  them,  male  and  female,  trav 
ersing  the  States,  none  excepted  —  and  by  native  superber  tableaux 
and  growths  of  language,  songs,  operas,  orations,  lectures,  archi 
tecture  —  and  by  a  sublime  and  serious  Religious  Democracy  sternly 
taking  command,  dissolving  the  old,  sloughing  off  surfaces,  and  from  its 
own  interior  and  vital  principles,  reconstructing,  democratizing  society. 
For  America,  type  of  progress,  and  of  essential  faith  in  man,  above 
all  his  errors  and  wickedness  —  few  suspect  how  deep,  how  deep  it 
really  strikes.  The  world  evidently  supposes,  and  we  have  evidently 
supposed  so  too,  that  the  States  are  merely  to  achieve  the  equal 
franchise,  an  elective  government  —  to  inaugurate  the  respectability 
of  labor,  and  become  a  nation  of  practical  operatives,  law-abiding, 
orderly  and  well  off.  Yes,  those  are  indeed  parts  of  the  task  of 
America  ;  but  they  not  only  do  not  exhaust  the  progressive  concep 
tion,  but  rather  arise,  teeming  with  it,  as  the  mediums  of  deeper, 
higher  progress.  Daughter  of  a  physical  revolution  —  mother  of  the 
true  revolutions,  which  are  of  the  interior  life,  and  of  the  arts.  For 
so  long  as  the  spirit  is  not  changed,  any  change  of  appearance  is  of 
no  avail. 


COLLECT  237 

The  old  men,  I  remember  as  a  boy,  were  always  talking  of  Ameri 
can  independence.  What  is  independence  ?  Freedom  from  all  laws 
Dr  bonds  except  those  of  one's  own  being,  control' d  by  the  universal 
ones.  To  lands,  to  man,  to  woman,  what  is  there  at  last  to  each, 
)ut  the  inherent  soul,  nativity,  idiocrasy,  free,  highest-poised,  soaring 
ts  own  flight,  following  out  itself? 

At  present,  these  States,  in  their  theology  and  social  standards, 
(of  greater  importance  than  their  political  institutions,)  are  entirely 
held  possession  of  by  foreign  lands.  We  see  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  the  New  World,  ignorant  of  its  genius,  not  yet  inaugurating  the 
native,  the  universal,  and  the  near,  still  importing  the  distant,  the 
partial,  and  the  dead.  We  see  London,  Paris,  Italy  —  not  original, 
superb,  as  where  they  belong  —  but  second-hand  here,  where  they 
do  not  belong.  We  see  the  shreds  of  Hebrews,  Romans,  Greeks  ; 
)ut  where,  on  her  own  soil,  do  we  see,  in  any  faithful,  highest, 
>roud  expression,  America  herself?  I  sometimes  question  whether 
she  has  a  corner  in  her  own  house. 

Not  but  that  in  one  sense,  and  a  very  grand  one,  good  theology, 
good  art,  or  good  literature,  has  certain  features  shared  in  conimon. 
The  combination  fraternizes,  ties  the  races  —  is,  in  many  particulars, 
under    laws    applicable  indifferently  to  all,  irrespective  of  climate  or 
date,    and,   from  whatever  source,  appeals  to   emotions,  pride,   love, 
spirituality,  common  to  human  kind.      Nevertheless,  they  touch  a  man 
closest,   (perhaps  only  actually  touch  him,)  even  in  these,  in  their  ex 
pression   through    autochthonic  lights  and  shades,  flavors,  fondnesses, 
aversions,    specific  incidents,  illustrations,  out  of  his  own  nationality, 
geography,  surroundings,   antecedents,  &c.      The  spirit  and  the  form 
are  one,  and  depend  far  more  on  association,  identity  and  place,  than 
is  supposed.      Subtly  interwoven  with  the  materiality  and  personality 
of  a  land,  a  race  —  Teuton,  Turk,  Californian,  or  what-not  —  there 
is  always  something  —  I  can   hardly  tell  what  it  is  —history  but  de 
scribes  the  results  of  it  —  it  is  the  same  as  the  untellable  look  of  some 
human  faces.      Nature,  too,  in  her  stolid  forms,  is  full  of  it  —  but  to 
most  it  is  there  a  secret.      This  something  is  rooted  in  the  invisible 
roots,  the  profoundest  meanings  of  that  place,   race,  or  nationality  ; 
and  to  absorb  and  again  effuse  it,  uttering  words  and  products  as  from  its 
midst,  and  carrying  it  into   highest  regions,  is  the  work,  or  a  main  part 
of  the  work,  of  any  country's  true  author,  poet,   historian,   lecturer, 
and  perhaps  even  priest  and  philosoph.      Here,   and  here  only,  are 
the  foundations  for  our  really  valuable  and  permanent  verse,  drama,  &c. 
But  at  present,  (judged  by  any  higher  scale  than  that  which  finds 
the  chief  ends  of  existence  to  be  to  feverishly  make  money  during  one- 
half  of  it,   and  by  some   "  amusement,"    or  perhaps  foreign  travel, 
flippantly  kill  time,  the  other  half,)  and  consider' d  with  reference  to 


238  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

purposes  of  patriotism,  health,  a  noble  personality,  religion,  and  the 
democratic  adjustments,  all  these  swarms  of  poems,  literary  magazines, 
dramatic  plays,  resultant  so  far  from  American  intellect,  and  the  for 
mation  of  our  best  ideas,  are  useless  and  a  mockery.  They  strengthen 
and  nourish  no  one,  express  nothing  characteristic,  give  decision  and 
purpose  to  no  one,  and  suffice  only  the  lowest  level  of  vacant  minds. 

Of  what  is  called  the  drama,  or  dramatic  presentation  in  the  United 
States,  as  now  put  forth  at  the  theatres,  I  should  say  it  deserves  to  be 
treated  with  the  same  gravity,  and  on  a  par  with  the  questions  of  orna 
mental  confectionery  at  public  dinners,  or  the  arrangement  of  curtains 
and  hangings  in  a  ball-room  —  nor  more,  nor  less.  Of  the  other,  I 
will  not  insult  the  reader's  intelligence,  (once  really  entering  into  the 
atmosphere  of  these  Vistas,)  by  supposing  it  necessary  to  show,  in 
detail,  why  the  copious  dribble,  either  of  our  little  or  well-known 
rhymesters,  does  not  fulfil,  in  any  respect,  the  needs  and  august  occa- 
f  sions  of  this  land.  America  demands  a  poetry  that  is  bold,  modern, 
and  all-surrounding  and  kosmical,  as  she  is  herself.  It  must  in  no 
respect  ignore  science  or  the  modern,  but  inspire  itself  with  science 
and  the  modern.  It  must  bend  its  vision  toward  the  future,  more  than 
the  past.  Like  America,  it  must  extricate  itself  from  even  the  greatest 
models  of  the  past,  and,  while  courteous  to  them,  must  have  entire 
faith  in  itself,  and  the  products  of  its  own  democratic  spirit  only. 
Like  her,  it  must  place  in  the  van,  and  hold  up  at  all  hazards,  the  ban 
ner  of  the  divine  pride  of  man  in  himself,  (the  radical  foundation  of 
the  new  religion.)  Long  enough  have  the  People  been  listening  to 
i  poems  in  which  common  humanity,  deferential,  bends  low,  humiliated, 
'  acknowledging  superiors.  But  America  listens  to  no  such  poems. 
Erect,  inflated,  and  fully  self-esteeming  be  the  chant ;  and  then 
America  will  listen  with  pleased  ears. 

Nor  may  the  genuine  gold,  the  gems,  when  brought  to  light  at  last, 
be  probably  usher*  d  forth  from  any  of  the  quarters  currently  counted 
on.  To-day,  doubtless,  the  infant  genius  of  American  poetic  expres 
sion,  (eluding  those  highly-refined  imported  and  gilt-edged  themes, 
and  sentimental  and  butterfly  flights,  pleasant  to  orthodox  publishers 
—  causing  tender  spasms  in  the  coteries,  and  warranted  not  to  chafe 
the  sensitive  cuticle  of  the  most  exquisitely  artificial  gossamer  delicacy, ) 
lies  sleeping  far  away,  happily  unrecognized  and  uninjur'd  by  the 
coteries,  the  art-writers,  the  talkers  and  critics  of  the  saloons,  or  the 
lecturers  in  the  colleges  —  lies  sleeping,  aside,  unrecking  itself,  in  some 
western  idiom,  or  native  Michigan  or  Tennessee  repartee,  or  s  ump- 
speech  —  or  in  Ke-  rucky  or  Georgia,  or  the  Carolinas  —  or  in  some 
slang  or  local  song  or  allusion  of  the  Manhattan,  Boston,  Philadelphia 
or  Baltimore  mechanic  —  or  up  in  the  Maine  woods  —  or  off  in  the 
hut  of  the  California  miner,  or  crossing  the  Rocky  mountains,  or  along 


COLLECT  239 

the  Pacific  railroad  —  or  on  the  breasts  of  the  young  farmers  of  the 
northwest,  or  Canada,  or  boatmen  of  the  lakes.  Rude  and  coarse  , 
nursing-beds,  these  ;  but  only  from  such  beginnings  and  stocks,  in 
digenous  here,  may  haply  arrive,  be  grafted,  and  sprout,  in  time, 
flowers  of  genuine  American  aroma,  and  fruits  truly  and  fully  our 
own. 

I  say  it  were  a  standing  disgrace  to  these  States  —  I  say  it  were  a 
disgrace  to  any  nation,  distinguished  above  others  by  the  variety  and 
vastness  of  its  territories,  its  materials,  its  Inventive  activity,  and  the 
splendid  practicality  of  its  people,  not  to  rise  and  soar  above  others  also 
in  its  original  styles  in  literature  and  art,  and  its  own  supply^  of  intel 
lectual  and  esthetic  masterpieces,  archetypal,  and  consistent  with  itself. 
I  know  not  a  land  except  ours  that  has  not,  to  some  extent,  however 
small,  made  its  title  clear.  The  Scotch  have  their  born  ballads,  subtly 
expressing  their  past  and  present,  and  expressing  character.  The 
Irish  have  theirs.  England,  Italy,  France,  Spain,  theirs.  What  has 
America  ?  With  exhaustless  mines  of  the  richest  ore  of  epic,  lyric, 
tale,  tune,  picture,  &c.,  in  the  Four  Years'  War  ;  with,  indeed,  I  some 
times  think,  the  richest  masses  of  material  ever  afforded  a  nation,  more 
variegated,  and  on  a  larger  scale  —  the  first  sign  of  proportionate, 
native,  imaginative  Soul,  and  first-class  works  to  match,  is,  (I  cannot 
too  often  repeat,)  so  far  wanting. 

Long  ere  the  second  centennial  arrives,  there  will  be  some  forty  to 
fifty  great  States,  among  them  Canada  and  Cuba.  When  the  present 
century  closes,  our  population  will  be  sixty  or  seventy  millions.  The 
Pacific  will  be  ours,  and  the  Atlantic  mainly  ours.  There  will  be 
daily  electric  communication  with  every  part  of  the  globe.  What  an 
age  !  What  a  land  !  Where,  elsewhere,  one  so  great  ?  The  indi 
viduality  of  one  nation  must  then,  as  always,  lead  the  world.  Can 
there  be  any  doubt  who  the  leader  ought  to  be  ?  Bear  in  mind, 
though,  that  nothing  less  than  the  mightiest  original  non-subordinated 
SOUL  has  ever  really,  gloriously  led,  or  ever  can  lead.  (This  Soul  — 
its  other  name,  in  these  Vistas,  is  LITERATURE.) 

In  fond  fancy  leaping  those  hundred  years  ahead,  let  us  survey 
America's  works,  poems,  philosophies,  fulfilling  prophecies,  and  giv 
ing  form  and  decision  to  best  ideals.  Much  that  is  now  undream' d 
of,  we  might  then  perhaps  see  establish' d,  luxuriantly  cropping  forth, 
richness,  vigor  of  letters  and  of  artistic  expression,  in  whose  products 
character  will  be  a  main  requirement,  and  not  merely  erudition  or 
elegance. 

Intense  and  loving  comradeship,  the  personal  and  passionate  attach 
ment  of  man  to  man  —  which,  hard  to  define,  underlies  the  lessons 
and  ideals  of  the  profound  saviours  of  every  land  and  age,  and  which 
seems  to  promise,  when  thoroughly  develop' d,  cultivated  and  recog- 
17 


240  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

nized  in  manners  and  literature,  the  most  substantial  hope  and  safety 
of  the  future  of  these  States,  will  then  be  fully  express'  d.* 

A  strong  fibred  joyousness  and  faith,  and  the  sense  of  health  alfresco, 
may  well  enter  into  the  preparation  of  future  noble  American  author 
ship.  Part  of  the  test  of  a  great  literatus  shall  be  the  absence  in  him 
of  the  idea  of  the  covert,  the  lurid,  the  maleficent,  the  devil,  the  grim 
estimates  inherited  from  the  Puritans,  hell,  natural  depravity,  and  the 
like.  The  great  literatus  will  be  known,  among  the  rest,  by  his  cheer 
ful  simplicity,  his  adherence  to  natural  standards,  his  limitless  faith  in 
God,  his  reverence,  and  by  the  absence  in  him  of  doubt,  ennui,, 
burlesque,  persiflage,  or  any  strain*  d  and  temporary  fashion. 

Nor  must  I  fail,  again  and  yet  again,  to  clinch,  reiterate  more 
plainly  still,  (O  that  indeed  such  survey  as  we  fancy,  may  show  in 
time  this  part  completed  also!)  the  lofty  aim,  surely  the  proudest  and 
the  purest,  in  whose  service  the  future  literatus,  of  whatever  field,  may 
gladly  labor.  As  we  have  intimated,  offsetting  the  material  civilization 
of  our  race,  our  nationality,  its  wealth,  territories,  factories,  population, 
products,  trade,  and  military  and  naval  strength,  and  breathing  breath 
of  life  into  all  these,  and  more,  must  be  its  moral  civilization  —  the 
formulation,  expression,  and  aidancy  whereof,  is  the  very  highest  height 
of  literature.  The  climax  of  this  loftiest  range  of  civilization,  rising 
above  all  the  gorgeous  shows  and  results  of  wealth,  intellect,  power, 
and  art,  as  such  —  above  even  theology  and  religious  fervor  —  is  to 
be  its  development,  from  the  eternal  bases,  and  the  fit  expression,  of 
absolute  Conscience,  moral  soundness,  Justice.  Even  in  religious 
fervor  there  is  a  touch  of  animal  heat.  But  moral  conscientiousness, 
crystalline,  without  flaw,  not  Godlike  only,  entirely  human,  awes  and 
enchants  forever.  Great  is  emotional  love,  even  in  the  order  of  the 
rational  universe.  But,  if  we  must  make  gradations,  I  am  clear  there 
is  something  greater.  Power,  love,  veneration,  products,  genius, 

*  It  is  to  the  development,  identification,  and  general  prevalence  of  that 
fervid  comradeship,  (the  adhesive  love,  at  least  rivaling  the  amative  love 
hitherto  possessing  imaginative  literature,  if  not  going  beyond  it,)  that  I 
look  for  the  counterbalance  and  offset  of  our  materialistic  and  vulgar  Ameri 
can  democracy,  and  for  the  spiritualization  thereof.  Many  will  say  it  is  a 
dream,  and  will  not  follow  my  inferences  :  but  I  confidently  expect  a  time 
when  there  will  be  seen,  running  like  a  half-hid  warp  through  all  the 
myriad  audible  and  visible  worldly  interests  of  America,  threads  of  manly 
friendship,  fond  and  loving,  pure  and  sweet,  strong  and  life-long,  carried  t: 
degrees  hitherto  unknown  —  not  only  giving  tone  to  individual  character 
and  making  it  unprecedently  emotional,  muscular,  heroic,  and  refined,  but 
having  the  deepest  relations  to  general  politics.  I  say  democracy  infers 
such  loving  comradeship,  as  its  most  inevitable  twin  or  counterpart,  without 
which  it  will  be  incomplete,  in  vain,  and  incapable  of  perpetuating  itself. 


COLLECT  241 

esthetics,  tried  by  subtlest  comparisons,  analyses,  and  in  serenest 
moods,  somewhere  fail,  somehow  become  vain.  Then  noiseless,  with 
flowing  steps,  the  lord,  the  sun,  the  last  ideal  comes.  By  the  names 
right,  justice,  truth,  we  suggest,  but  do  not  describe  it.  To  the 
world  of  men  it  remains  a  dream,  an  idea  as  they  call  it.  But  no 
dream  is  it  to  the  wise  —  but  the  proudest,  almost  only  solid,  lasting  thing 
of  all.  Its  analogy  in  the  material  universe  is  what  holds  together  this 
world,  and  every  object  upon  it,  and  carries  its  dynamics  on  forever 
sure  and  safe.  Its  lack,  and  the  persistent  shirking  of  it,  as  in  life, 
sociology,  literature,  politics,  business,  and  even  sermonizing,  these 
times,  or  any  times,  still  leaves  the  abysm,  the  mortal  flaw  and  smutch, 
mocking  civilization  to-day,  with  all  its  unquestion'd  triumphs,  and  all 
the  civilization  so  far  known.* 

Present  literature,  while  magnificently  fulfilling  certain  popular  de 
mands,  with  plenteous  knowledge  and  verbal  smartness,  is  profoundly 
sophisticated,  insane,  and  its  very  joy  is  morbid.  It  needs  tally  and 
express  Nature,  and  the  spirit  of  Nature,  and  to  know  and  obey  the 
standards.  ""7  say  the  question  of  Nature,  largely  consider' d,  involves 
the  questions  of  the  esthetic,  the  emotional,  and  the  religious  —  and 
involves  happiness.  A  fitly  born  and  bred  race,  growing  up  in  right 
conditions  of  out-door  as  much  as  in-door  harmony,  activity  and 
development,  would  probably,  from  and  in  those  conditions,  find  it 
enough  merely  to  live — and  would,  in  their  relations  to  the  sky,  air, 
water,  trees,  &c.,  and  to  the  countless  common  shows,  and  in  the  fact 
of  life  itself,  discover  and  achieve  happiness — with  Being  suffused  night 
and  day  by  wholesome  extasy,  surpassing  all  the  pleasures  that  wealth, 
amusement,  and  even  gratified  intellect,  erudition,  or  the  sense  of  art, 
can  give. 

In  the  prophetic  literature  of  these  States,  (the  reader  of  my  specula 
tions  will  miss  their  principal  stress  unless  he  allows  well  for  the  point 
that  a  new  Literature,  perhaps  a  new  Metaphysics,  certainly  a  new 

*  I  am  reminded  as  I  write  that  out  of  this  very  conscience,  or  idea  of 
conscience,  of  intense  moral  right,  and  in  its  name  and  strain1  d  construc 
tion,  the  worst  fanaticisms,  wars,  persecutions,  murders,  &c.,  have  yet,  in 
all  lands,  in  the  past,  been  broach' d,  and  have  come  to  their  devilish  fruition. 
Much  is  to  be  said  — but  I  may  say  here,  and  in  response,  that  side  by 
side  with  the  unflagging  stimulation  of  the  elements  of  religion  and  con 
science  must  henceforth  move  with  equal  sway,  science,  absolute  reason, 
and  the  general  proportionate  development  of  the  whole  man.  These 
scientific  facts,  deductions,  are  divine  too  —  precious  counted  parts  of  moral 
civilization,  and,  with  physical  health,  indispensable  to  it,  to  prevent  fanati 
cism.  For  abstract  religion,  I  perceive,  is  easily  led  astray,  ever  credulous, 
and  is  capable  of  devouring,  remorseless,  like  fire  and  flame.  Conscience, 
too,  isolated  from  all  else,  and  from  the  emotional  nature,  may  but  attain 


242  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Poetry,  are  to  be,  in  my  opinion,  the  only  sure  and  worthy  supports 
and  expressions  of  the  American  Democracy,)  Nature,  true  Nature, 
and  the  true  idea  of  Nature,  long  absent,  must,  above  all,  become  fully 
restored,  enlarged,  and  must  furnish  the  pervading  atmosphere  to 
poems,  and  the  test  of  all  high  literary  and  esthetic  compositions.  I 
do  not  mean  the  smooth  walks,  trimm'd  hedges,  poseys  and  nightin 
gales  of  the  English  poets,  but  the  whole  orb,  with  its  geologic  history, 
the  kosmos,  carrying  fire  and  snow,  that  rolls  through  the  illimitable 
areas,  light  as  a  feather,  though  weighing  billions  of  tons.  Further 
more,  as  by  what  we  now  partially  call  Nature  is  intended,  at  most, 
only  what  is  entertainable  by  the  physical  conscience,  the  sense  of 
matter,  and  of  good  animal  health — on  these  it  must  be  distinctly 
accumulated,  incorporated,  that  man,  comprehending  these,  has,  in 
towering  superaddition,  the  moral  and  spiritual  consciences,  indicating 
his  destination  beyond  the  ostensible,  the  mortal. 

To  the  heights  of  such  estimate  of  Nature  indeed  ascending,  we 
proceed  to  make  observations  for  our  Vistas,  breathing  rarest  air. 
What  is  I  believe  called  Idealism  seems  to  me  to  suggest,  (guarding 
against  extravagance,  and  ever  modified  even  by  its  opposite,)  the 
course  of  inquiry  and  desert  of  favor  for  our  New  World  metaphysics, 
their  foundation  of  and  in  literature,  giving  hue  to  all.* 

the  beauty  and  purity  of  glacial,  snowy  ice.  We  want,  for  these  States, 
for  the  general  character,  a  cheerful,  religious  fervor,  endued  with  the  ever- 
present  modifications  of  the  human  emotions,  friendship,  benevolence,  with 
a  fair  field  for  scientific  inquiry,  the  right  of  individual  judgment,  and 
always  the  cooling  influences  of  material  Nature. 

*  The  culmination  and  fruit  of  literary  artistic  expression,  and  its  final 
fields  of  pleasure  for  the  human  soul,  are  in  metaphysics,  including  the 
mysteries  of  the  spiritual  world,  the  soul  itself,  and  the  question  of  the  im 
mortal  continuation  of  our  identity.  In  all  ages,  the  mind  of  man  has 
brought  up  here  —  and  always  will.  Here,  at  least,  of  whatever  race  or 
era,  we  stand  on  common  ground.  Applause,  too,  is  unanimous,  antique 
or  modern.  Those  authors  who  work  well  in  this  field — though  their  re 
ward,  instead  of  a  handsome  percentage,  or  royalty,  may  be  but  simply  the 
laurel-crown  of  the  victors  in  the  great  Olympic  games  —  will  be  dearest 
to  humanity,  and  their  works,  however  esthetically  defective,  will  be  treasur'  d 
forever.  The  altitude  of  literature  and  poetry  has  always  been  religion  — 
and  always  will  be.  The  Indian  Vedas,  the  Nafkas  of  Zoroaster,  the  Tal 
mud  of  the  Jews,  the  Old  Testament,  the  Gospel  of  Christ  and  his  disciples, 
Plato's  works,  the  Koran  of  Mohammed,  the  Edda  of  Snorro,  and  so  on 
toward  our  own  day,  to  Swedenborg,  and  to  the  invaluable  contributions  of 
Leibnitz,  Kant  and  Hegel  —  these,  with  such  poems  only  in  which,  (while 
singing  well  of  persons  and  events,  of  the  passions  of  man,  and  the  shows 
of  the  material  universe,)  the  religious  tone,  the  consciousness  of  mystery, 
the  recognition  of  the  future,  of  the  unknown,  of  Deity  over  and  under  all,  and 


COLLECT  243 

The  elevating  and  etherealizing  ideas  of  the  unknown  and  of 
unreality  must  be  brought  forward  with  authority,  as  they  are  the 
legitimate  heirs  of  the  known,  and  of  reality,  and  at  least  as  great  as 
their  parents.  Fearless  of  scoffing,  and  of  the  ostent,  let  us  take  our 
stand,  our  ground,  and  never  desert  it,  to  confront  the  growing 
excess  and  arrogance  of  realism.  To  the  cry,  now  victorious  — 
the  cry  of  sense,  science,  flesh,  incomes,  farms,  merchandise,  logic, 
intellect,  demonstrations,  solid  perpetuities,  buildings  of  brick  and 
iron,  or  even  the  facts  of  the  shows  of  trees,  earth,  rocks,  &c.,  fear 
not,  my  brethren,  my  sisters,  to  sound  out  with  equally  determined 
voice,  that  conviction  brooding  within  the  recesses  of  every  envi 
sion' d  soul  —  illusions  !  apparitions!  figments  all!  True,  we  must 
not  condemn  the  show,  neither  absolutely  deny  it,  for  the  indispen- 
sability  of  its  meanings ;  but  how  clearly  we  see  that,  migrate^  in 
soul  to  what  we  can  already  conceive  of  superior  and  spiritual  points 
of  view,  and,  palpable  as  it  seems  under  present  relations,  it  all  and 
several  might,  nay  certainly  would,  fall  apart  and  vanish. 

I   hail  with  joy  the  oceanic,  variegated,  intense  practical  energy, 
the  demand  for  facts,   even  the  business  materialism  of  the   current 

of  the  divine  purpose,  are  never  absent,  but  indirectly  give  tone  to  all  — 
exhibit  literature's  real  heights  and  elevations,  towering  up  like  the  great 
mountains  of  the  earth. 

Standing  on  this  ground— the  last,  the  highest,  only  permanent  ground 

and  sternly  criticising,  from  it,  all  works,  either  of  the  literary,  or  any 

art,  we  have  peremptorily  to  dismiss  every  pretensive  production,  however 
fine  its  esthetic  or  intellectual  points,  which  violates  or  ignores,  or  even  does 
not  celebrate,  the  central  divine  idea  of  All,  suffusing  universe,  of  eternal 
trains  of  purpose,  in  the  development,  by  however  slow  degrees,  of  the 
physical,  moral,  and  spiritual  kosmos.  I  say  he  has  studied,  meditated  to 
no  profit,  whatever  may  be  his  mere  erudition,  who  has  not  absorb' d  this 
simple  consciousness  and  faith.  It  is  not  entirely  new  —  but  it  is  for 
Democracy  to  elaborate  it,  and  look  to  build  upon  and  expand  from  it, 
with  uncompromising  reliance.  Above  the  doors  of  teaching  the  inscrip 
tion  is  to  appear,  Though  little  or  nothing  can  be  absolutely  known,  per- 
ceiv'd,  except  from  a  point  of  view  which  is  evanescent,  yet  we  know  at 
least  one  permanency,  that  Time  and  Space,  in  the  will  of  God,  furnish 
successive  chains,  completions  of  material  births  and  beginnings,  solve  all 
discrepancies,  fears  and  doubts,  and  eventually  fulfil  happiness  —  and  that 
the  prophecy  of  those  births,  namely  spiritual  results,  throws  the  true  arch 
over  all  teaching,  all  science.  The  local  considerations  of  sin,  disease,  de 
formity,  ignorance,  death,  &c.,  and  their  measurement  by  the  superficial 
mind,  and  ordinary  legislation  and  theology,  are  to  be  met  by  science, 
boldly  accepting,  promulging  this  faith,  and  planting  the  seeds  of  superber 

laws of  the  explication  of  the  physical  universe  through  the  spiritual  — 

and  clearing  the  way  for  a  religion,  sweet  and  unimpugnable  alike  to  little 
child  or  great  savan. 


244  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

age,  our  States.  But  wo  to  the  age  or  land  in  which  these  things, 
movements,  stopping  at  themselves,  do  not  tend  to  ideas.  As  fuel 
to  flame,  and  flame  to  the  heavens,  so  must  wealth,  science,  mate 
rialism  —  even  this  democracy  of  which  we  make  so  much  —  un 
erringly  feed  the  highest  mind,  the  soul.  Infinitude  the  flight  : 
fathomless  the  mystery.  Man,  so  diminutive,  dilates  beyond  the 
sensible  universe,  competes  with,  outcopes  space  and  time,  meditating 
even  one  great  idea.  Thus,  and  thus  only,  does  a  human  being, 
his  spirit,  ascend  above,  and  justify,  objective  Nature,  which,  prob 
ably  nothing  in  itself,  is  incredibly  and  divinely  serviceable,  indis 
pensable,  real,  here.  And  as  the  purport  of  objective  Nature  is 
doubtless  folded,  hidden,  somewhere  here  —  as  somewhere  here  is 
what  this  globe  and  its  manifold  forms,  and  the  light  of  day,  and 
night's  darkness,  and  life  itself,  with  all  its  experiences,  are  for — 
it  is  here  the  great  literature,  especially  verse,  must  get  its  inspiration 
and  throbbing  blood.  Then  may  we  attain  to  a  poetry  worthy  the 
immortal  soul  of  man,  and  which,  while  absorbing  materials,  and,  in 
their  own  sense,  the  shows  of  Nature,  will,  above  all,  have,  both 
directly  and  indirectly,  a  freeing,  fruidizing,  expanding,  religious 
character,  exulting  with  science,  fructifying  the  moral  elements,  and 
stimulating  aspirations,  and  meditations  on  the  unknown. 

The  process,  so  far,  is  indirect  and  peculiar,  and  though  it  may 
be  suggested,  cannot  be  defined.  Observing,  rapport,  and  with 
intuition,  the  shows  and  forms  presented  by  Nature,  the  sensuous 
luxuriance,  the  beautiful  in  living  men  and  women,  the  actual  play  of 
passions,  in  history  and  life  —  and,  above  all,  from  those  develop 
ments  either  in  Nature  or  human  personality  in  which  power, 
(dearest  of  all  to  the  sense  of  the  artist,)  transacts  itself — out  of 
these,  and  seizing  what  is  in  them,  the  poet,  the  esthetic  worker  in 
any  field,  by  the  divine  magic  of  his  genius,  projects  them,  their 
analogies,  by  curious  removes,  indirections,  in  literature  and  art. 
(No  useless  attempt  to  repeat  the  material  creation,  by  daguerreo- 
typing  the  exact  likeness  by  mortal  mental  means.)  This  is  the 
image -making  faculty,  coping  with  material  creation,  and  rivaling, 
almost  triumphing  over  it.  This  alone,  when  all  the  other  parts  of 
a  specimen  of  literature  or  art  are  ready  and  waiting,  can  breathe  into 
it  the  breath  of  life,  and  endow  it  with  identity. 

"  The  true  question  to  ask,"  says  the  librarian  of  Congress  in  a 
paper  read  before  the  Social  Science  Convention  at  New  York, 
October,  1869,  "The  true  question  to  ask  respecting  a  book,  is, 
has  it  helped  any  human  soul?"  This  is  the  hint,  statement,  not 
only  of  the  great  literatus,  his  book,  but  of  every  great  artist.  It 
may  be  that  all  works  of  art  are  to  be  first  tried  by  their  art  quali 
ties,  their  image-forming  talent,  and  their  dramatic,  pictorial,  plot- 


COLLECT  245 

constructing,  euphonious  and  other  talents.  Then,  whenever  claiming 
to  be  first-cla.;s  works,  they  are  to  be  strictly  and  sternly  tried  by 
their  foundation  in,  and  radiation,  in  the  highest  sense,  and  always 
indirectly,  of  the  ethic  principles,  and  eligibility  to  free,  arouse,  dilate. 

As,  within  the  purposes  of  the   Kosmos,  and  vivifying  all   meteo 
rology,  and  all   the   congeries  of  the   mineral,  vegetable    and  animal 

worlds all  the   physical  growth  and  development  of  man,  and   all 

the  history  of  the  race  in  politics,  religions,  wars,  &c.,  there  is  a 
moral  purpose,  a  visible  or  invisible  intention,  certainly  underlying 

all its    results    and    proof  needing  to    be    patiently    waited    for  - 

needing  intuition,  faith,  idiosyncrasy,  to  its  realization,  which  many, 
and  especially  the  intellectual,  do  not  have  —  so  in  the  product,  or 
congeries  of  the  product,  of  the  greatest  literatus.  This  is  the  last, 
profoundest  measure  and  test  of  a  first-class  literary  or  esthetic  achieve 
ment,  and  when  understood  and  put  in  force  must  fain,  I  say,  lead 
to  works,  books,  nobler  than  any  hitherto  known.  Lo  !  Nature, 
(the  only  complete,  actual  poem,)  existing  calmly  in  the  divine 
scheme,  containing  all,  content,  careless  of  the  criticisms  of  a  day, 
or  these  endless  and  wordy  chatterers.  And  lo  !  to  the  consciousness 
of  the  soul,  the  permanent  identity,  the  thought,  the  something, 
before  which  the  magnitude  even  of  democracy,  art,  literature,  &c., 
dwindles,  becomes  partial,  measurable  —  something  that  fully  sat 
isfies,  (which  those  do  not.)  That  something  is  the  All,  and  the 
idea  of  All,  with  the  accompanying  idea  of  eternity,  and  of  itself, 
the  soul,  buoyant,  indestructible,  sailing  space  forever,  visiting  every 
region,  as  a  ship  the  sea.  And  again  lo  !  the  pulsations  in  all  matter, 
all  spirit,  throbbing  forever  —  the  eternal  beats,  eternal  systole  and 
diastole  of  life  in  things  —  wherefrom  I  feel  and  know  that  death  is 
not  the  ending,  as  was  thought,  but  rather  the  real  beginning  —  and 
that  nothing  ever  is  or  can  be  lost,  nor  ever  die,  nor  soul,  nor  matter. 

In  the  future  of  these  States  must  arise  poets  immenser  far,  and 
make  great  poems  of  death.  The  poems  of  life  are  great,  but  there 
must  be  the  poems  of  the  purports  of  life,  not  only  in  itself,  but 
beyond  itself.  I  have  eulogized  Homer,  the  sacred  bards  of  Jewry, 
Eschylus,  Juvenal,  Shakspere,  &c.,  and  acknowledged  their  ines 
timable  value.  But,  (with  perhaps  the  exception,  in  some,  not  all 
respects,  of  the  second-mention' d,)  I  say  there  must,  for  future  and 
democratic  purposes,  appear  poets,  (dare  I  to  say  so  ?)  of  higher 
class  even  than  any  of  those  —  poets  not  only  possess' d  of  the  reli 
gious  fire  and  abandon  of  Isaiah,  luxuriant  in  the  epic  talent  of 
Homer,  or  for  proud  characters  as  in  Shakspere,  but  consistent  with 
the  Hegelian  formulas,  and  consistent  with  modern  science.  America 
needs,  and  the  world  needs,  a  class  of  bards  who  will,  now  and  ever, 
so  link  and  tally  the  rational  physical  being  of  man,  with  the  en- 


246  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

sembles  of  time  and  space,  and  with  this  vast  and  multiform  show, 
Nature,  surrounding  him,  ever  tantalizing  him,  equally  a  part,  and 
yet  not  a  part  of  him,  as  to  essentially  harmonize,  satisfy,  and  put 
at  rest.  Faith,  very  old,  now  scared  away  by  science,  must  be 
restored,  brought  back  by  the  same  power  that  caused  her  departure 
—  restored  with  new  sway,  deeper,  wider,  higher  than  ever.  Surely, 
this  universal  ennui,  this  coward  fear,  this  shuddering  at  death,  these 
low,  degrading  views,  are  not  always  to  rule  the  spirit  pervading 
future  society,  as  it  has  the  past,  and  does  the  present.  What  the 
Roman  Lucretius  sought  most  nobly,  yet  all  too  blindly,  negatively 
to  do  for  his  age  and  its  successors,  must  be  done  positively  by  some 
great  coming  literatus,  especially  poet,  who,  while  remaining  fully 
poet,  will  absorb  whatever  science  indicates,  with  spiritualism,  and  out 
of  them,  and  out  of  his  own  genius,  will  compose  the  great  poem  of 
death.  Then  will  man  indeed  confront  Nature,  and  confront  time 
and  space,  both  with  science,  and  con  amore,  and  take  his  right  place, 
prepared  for  life,  master  of  fortune  and  misfortune.  And  then  that 
which  was  long  wanted  will  be  supplied,  and  the  ship  that  had  it  not 
before  in  all  her  voyages,  will  have  an  anchor. 

There  are  still  other  standards,  suggestions,  for  products  of  high 
literatuses.  That  which  really  balances  and  conserves  the  social  and 
political  world  is  not  so  much  legislation,  police,  treaties,  and  dread  of 
punishment,  as  the  latent  eternal  intuitional  sense,  in  humanity,  of 
fairness,  manliness,  decorum,  &c.  Indeed,  this  perennial  regulation, 
control,  and  oversight,  by  self-suppliance,  is  sine  qua  non  to  democracy  ; 
and  a  highest  widest  aim  of  democratic  literature  may  well  be  to  bring 
forth,  cultivate,  brace,  and  strengthen  this  sense,  in  individuals  and 
society.  A  strong  mastership  of  the  general  inferior  self  by  the  supe 
rior  self,  is  to  be  aided,  secured,  indirectly,  but  surely,  by  the  lit 
eratus,  in  his  works,  shaping,  for  individual  or  aggregate  democracy,  a 
great  passionate  body,  in  and  along  with  which  goes  a  great  masterful 
spirit. 

And  still,  providing  for  contingencies,  I  fain  confront  the  fact,  the 
need  of  powerful  native  philosophs  and  orators  and  bards,  these  States, 
as  rallying  points  to  come,  in  times  of  danger,  and  to  fend  o£F  ruin  and 
defection.  For  history  is  long,  long,  long.  Shift  and  turn  the  com 
binations  of  the  statement  as  we  may,  the  problem  of  the  future  of 
America  is  in  certain  respects  as  dark  as  it  is  vast.  Pride,  competition, 
segregation,  vicious  wilfulness,  and  license  beyond  example,  brood 
already  upon  us.  Unwieldy  and  immense,  who  shall  hold  in  behe 
moth  ?  who  bridle  leviathan  ?  Flaunt  it  as  we  choose,  athwart  and 
over  the  roads  of  our  progress  loom  huge  uncertainty,  and  dreadful, 
threatening  gloom.  It  is  useless  to  deny  it :  Democracy  grows  rankly 
up  the  thickest,  noxious,  deadliest  plants  and  fruits  of  all  —  brings 


COLLECT  247 

worse   and   worse   invaders  —  needs   newer,    larger,    stronger,    keener 
compensations  and  compellers. 

Our  lands,  embracing  so  much,  (embracing  indeed  the  whole,  re 
jecting  none,)  hold  in  their  breast  that  flame  also,  capable  of"  consum 
ing  themselves,  consuming  us  all.  Short  as  the  span  of  our  national 
life  has  been,  already  have  death  and  downfall  crowded  close  upon  us 

—  and  will  again  crowd  close,  no  doubt,  even  if  warded  off.     Ages 
to  come  may  never  know,  but  I  know,  how  narrowly  during  the  late 
secession  war — and  more  than  once,  and  more  than  twice  or  thrice  — 
our  Nationality,  (wherein  bound  up,  as  in  a  ship  in  a  storm,  depended, 
and  yet  depend,  all  our  best  life,  all  hope,  all  value,)  just  grazed,  just 
by  a  hair  escaped  destruction.     Alas!   to  think  of  them!   the  agony  and 
bloody  sweat  of  certain  of  those  hours !  those  cruel,  sharp,  suspended 
crises ! 

Even  to-day,  amid  these  whirls,  incredible  flippancy,  and  blind 
fury  of  parties,  infidelity,  entire  lack  of  first-class  captains  and  leaders, 
added  to  the  plentiful  meanness  and  vulgarity  of  the  ostensible  masses  — 
that  problem,  the  labor  question,  beginning  to  open  like  a  yawning 
gulf,  rapidly  widening  every  year  —  what  prospect  have  we  ?  We 
sail  a  dangerous  sea  of  seething  currents,  cross  and  under-currents,  vor 
tices  —  all  so  dark,  untried  —  and  whither  shall  we  turn  ?  It  seems 
as  if  the  Almighty  had  spread  before  this  nation  charts  of  imperial  des 
tinies,  dazzling  as  the  sun,  yet  with  many  a  deep  intestine  difficulty, 
and  human  aggregate  of  cankerous  imperfection —  saying,  lo  !  the 
roads,  the  only  plans  of  development,  long  and  varied  with  all  terrible 
balks  and  ebullitions.  You  said  in  your  soul,  I  will  be  empire  of 
empires,  overshadowing  all  else,  past  and  present,  putting  the  history 
of  Old-  World  dynasties,  conquests  behind  me,  as  of  no  account  —  mak 
ing  a  new  history,  a  history  of  democracy,  making  old  history  a  dwarf 

—  I  alone  inaugurating  largeness,  culminating  time.     If  these,  O  lands 
of  America,  are  indeed  the  prizes,  the  determinations  of  your  soul,  be 
it    so.      But    behold    the    cost,    and    already   specimens   of  the  cost. 
Thought  you  greatness  was   to  ripen   for  you  like  a  pear  ?     If  you 
would  have  greatness,  know  that  you  must  conquer  it  through  ages, 
centuries  —  must  pay  for  it  with  a  proportionate  price.      For  you  too, 
as   for  all  lands,   the  struggle,   the  traitor,  the  wily  person  in  office, 
scrofulous  wealth,  the  surfeit  of  prosperity,  the  demonism  of  greed,  the 
hell  of  passion,  the  decay  of  faith,  the  long  postponement,  the  fossil- 
like  lethargy,  the  ceaseless  need  of  revolutions,  prophets,  thunder-storms, 
deaths,  births,  new  projections  and  invigorations  of  ideas  and  men. 

Yet  I  have  dream' d,  merged  in  that  hidden-tangled  problem  of  our 
fate,   whose   long   unraveling    stretches  mysteriously  through    time  — 
dream' d  out,  portray' d,  hinted  already  —  a  little  or  a  larger  band  —  a 
band  of  brave  and  true,  unprecedented  yet — arm'd  and  equipt  at  every 


248  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

point  —  the  members  separated,  it  may  be,  by  different  dates  and 
States,  or  south,  or  north,  or  east,  or  west  —  Pacific,  Atlantic, 
Southern,  Canadian  —  a  year,  a  century  here,  and  other  centuries 
there  —  but  always  one,  compact  in  soul,  conscience-conserving,  God- 
inculcating,  inspired  achievers,  not  only  in  literature,  the  greatest  art, 
but  achievers  in  all  art  —  a  new,  undying  order,  dynasty,  from  age  to 
age  transmitted  —  a  band,  a  class,  at  least  as  fit  to  cope  with  current 
years,  our  dangers,  needs,  as  those  who,  for  their  times,  so  long,  so 
well,  in  armor  or  in  cowl,  upheld  and  made  illustrious,  that  far-back 
feudal,  priestly  world.  To  ofset  chivalry,  indeed,  those  vanish' d 
countless  knights,  old  altars,  abbeys,  priests,  ages  and  strings  of  ages,  a 
knightlier  and  more  sacred  cause  to-day  demands,  and  shall  supply,  in 
a  New  World,  to  larger,  grander  work,  more  than  the  counterpart 
and  tally  of  them. 

Arrived  now,  definitely,  at  an  apex  for  these  Vistas,  I  confess  that 
the  promulgation  and  belief  in  such  a  class  or  institution  —  a  new  and 
greater  literatus  order  —  its  possibility,  (nay  certainty,)  underlies  these 
entire  speculations  —  and  that  the  rest,  the  other  parts,  as  superstruc 
tures,  are  all  founded  upon  it.  It  really  seems  to  me  the  condition, 
not  only  of  our  future  national  and  democratic  development,  but  of  our 
perpetuation.  In  the  highly  artificial  and  materialistic  bases  of  modern 
civilization,  with  the  corresponding  arrangements  and  methods  of  living, 
the  force-infusion  of  intellect  alone,  the  depraving  influences  of  riches 
just  as  much  as  poverty,  the  absence  of  all  high  ideals  in  character  — 
with  the  long  series  of  tendencies,  shapings,  which  few  are  strong 
enough  to  resist,  and  which  now  seem,  with  steam-engine  speed,  to 
be  everywhere  turning  out  the  generations  of  humanity  like  uniform 
iron  castings  —  all  of  which,  as  compared  with  the  feudal  ages,  we 
can  yet  do  nothing  better  than  accept,  make  the  best  of,  and  even 
welcome,  upon  the  whole,  for  their  oceanic  practical  grandeur,  and 
their  restless  wholesale  kneading  of  the  masses  —  I  say  of  all  this 
tremendous  and  dominant  play  of  solely  materialistic  bearings  upon  cur 
rent  life  in  the  United  States,  with  the  results  as  already  seen,  accumu 
lating,  and  reaching  far  into  the  future,  that  they  must  either  be 
confronted  and  met  by  at  least  an  equally  subtle  and  tremendous 
force-infusion  for  purposes  of  spiritualization,  for  the  pure  conscience, 
for  genuine  esthetics,  and  for  absolute  and  primal  manliness  and 
womanliness  —  or  else  our  modern  civilization,  with  all  its  improve 
ments,  is  in  vain,  and  we  are  on  the  road  to  a  destiny,  a  status, 
equivalent,  in  its  real  world,  to  that  of  the  fabled  damned. 

Prospecting  thus  the  coming  unsped  days,  and  that  new  order  in 
them  —  marking  the  endless  train  of  exercise,  development,  unwind, 
in  nation  as  in  man,  which  life  is  for  —  we  see,  fore-indicated,  amid 
these  prospects  and  hopes,  new  law-forces  of  spoken  and  written  Ian- 


COLLECT  249 

guage not  merely   the    pedagogue-forms,    correct,    regular,   familiar 

with   precedents,  made  for   matters  of  outside  propriety,  fine   words, 
thoughts  definitely  told  out  —  but  a  language  fann'd  by  the  breath   of 
Nature,  which  leaps  overhead,  cares  mostly  for  impetus  and  effects, 
and  for  what  it  plants  and  invigorates  to  grow  —  tallies  life  and  charac 
ter,  and  seldomer  tells  a  thing  than  suggests  or  necessitates  it.     In  fact, 
a  new  theory  of  literary  composition  for  imaginative  works  of  the  very 
first  class,  and  especially  for  highest  poems,  is  the  sole  course  open  to 
these  States.      Books  are  to  be  call'd  for,  and  supplied,  on  the  assump 
tion  that  the  process  of  reading  is  not   a   half-sleep,  but,   in  highest 
sense,   an  exercise,    a  gymnast's   struggle;   that   the  reader   is   to  do 
something  for  himself,  must  be  on  the  alert,  must  himself  or  herself 
construct  indeed   the  poem,  argument,  history,  metaphysical   essay  - 
the  text  furnishing  the  hints,  the  clue,  the  start  or  frame-work.      Not 
the  book  needs  so  much  to  be  the  complete  thing,  but  the  reader  of 
the  book  does.      That  were  to   make  a  nation  of  supple  and  athletic 
minds,  well-train' d,  intuitive,  used  to  depend  on  themselves,  and  not 
on  a  few  coteries  of  writers. 

Investigating  here,  we  see,  not  that  it  is  a  little  thing  we  have,  in 
having  the  bequeath' d  libraries,  countless  shelves  of  volumes,  records, 
&c.;  yet  how  serious  the  danger,  depending  entirely  on  them,  of  the 
bloodless  vein,  the  nerveless  arm,  the  false  application,  at  second  or 
third  hand.  We  see  that  the  real  interest  of  this  people  of  ours  in 
the  theology,  history,  poetry,  politics,  and  personal  models  of  the  past, 
(the  British  islands,  for  instance,  and  indeed  all  the  past,)  is  not  neces 
sarily  to  mould  ourselves  or  our  literature  upon  them,  but  to  attain 
fuller,  more  definite  comparisons,  warnings,  and  the  insight  to  our 
selves,  our  own  present,  and  our  own  far  grander,  different,  future 
history,  religion,  social  customs,  &c.  We  see  that  almost  everything 
that  has  been  written,  sung,  or  stated,  of  old,  with  reference  to 
humanity  under  the  feudal  and  oriental  institutes,  religions,  and  for 
other  lands,  needs  to  be  re-written,  re-sung,  re-stated,  in  terms  con 
sistent  with  the  institution  of  these  States,  and  to  come  in  range  and 
obedient  uniformity  with  them. 

We  see,  as  in  the  universes  of  the  material  kosmos,  after  meteoro 
logical,  vegetable,  and  animal  cycles,  man  at  last  arises,  born  through 
them,  to  prove  them,  concentrate  them,  to  turn  upon  them  with  wonder 
and  love  — to  command  them,  adorn  them,  and  carry  them  upward 
into  superior  realms  —  so,  out  of  the  series  of  the  preceding  social  and 
political  universes,  now  arise  these  States.  We  see  that  while  many 
were  supposing  things  establish' d  and  completed,  really  the  grandest 
things  always  remain  ;  and  discover  that  the  work  of  the  New  World 
is  not  ended,  but  only  fairly  begun. 

We  see  our  land,  America,  her  literature,  esthetics,  &c.,  as,  sub- 


250  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

stantially,  the  getting  in  form,  or  effusement  and  statement,  of  deepest 
basic  elements  and  loftiest  final  meanings,  of  history  and  man  —  and 
the  portrayal,  (under  the  eternal  laws  and  conditions  of  beauty,)  of 
our  own  physiognomy,  the  subjective  tie  and  expression  of  the  objec 
tive,  as  from  our  own  combination,  continuation,  and  points  of  view — 
and  the  deposit  and  record  of  the  national  mentality,  character,  appeals, 
heroism,  wars,  and  even  liberties  —  where  these,  and  all,  culminate  in 
native  literary  and  artistic  formulation,  to  be  perpetuated  ;  and  not 
having  which  native,  first-class  formulation,  she  will  flounder  about, 
and  her  other,  however  imposing,  eminent  greatness,  prove  merely  a 
passing  gleam  ;  but  truly  having  which,  she  will  understand  herself, 
live  nobly,  nobly  contribute,  emanate,  and,  swinging,  poised  safely 
on  herself,  illumin'd  and  illuming,  become  a  full-form' d  world,  and 
divine  Mother  not  only  of  material  but  spiritual  worlds,  in  ceaseless 
succession  through  time — the  main  thing  being  the  average,  the  bodily, 
the  concrete,  the  democratic,  the  popular,  on  which  all  the  super 
structures  of  the  future  are  to  permanently  rest. 


ORIGINS  OF  ATTEMPTED 
|  SECESSION 

Not  the  whole  matter,  but  some  side  facts  worth  conning  to-day  and  any 

day. 


I  CONSIDER  the  war  of  attempted  secession,  1 86o-'65,not_as  a  struggle 
of  two  distinct  and  separate  peoples,  but  a  conflict  (often  happening, 
and  very  fierce)  between  the  passions  and  paradoxes  of  one  and  the 
same  identity  —  perhaps  the  only  terms  on  which  that  identity  could 
really  become  fused,  homogeneous  and  lasting.  The  origin  and  con 
ditions  out  of  which  it  arose,  are  full  of  lessons,  full  of  warnings  yet  to 
the  Republic  —  and  always  will  be.  The  underlying  and  principal 
of  those  origins  are  yet  singularly  ignored.  The  Northern  States  were 
really  just  as  responsible  for  that  war,  (in  its  precedents,  foundations, 
instigations,)  as  the  South.  Let  me  try  to  give  my  view.  From  the 
age  of  21  to  40,  (1840-' 60,)  I  was  interested  in  the  political  move 
ments  of  the  land,  not  so  much  as  a  participant,  but  as  an  observer, 
and  a  regular  voter  at  the  elections.  I  think  I  was  conversant  with 
the  springs  of  action,  and  their  workings,  not  only  in  New  York  city 
and  Brooklyn,  but  understood  them  in  the  whole  country,  as  I  had 
made  leisurely  tours  through  all  the  middle  States,  and  partially  through 
the  western  and  southern,  and  down  to  New  Orleans,  in  which  city 
I  resided  for  some  time.  (I  was  there  at  the  close  of  the  Mexican 
war  —  saw  and  talk'd  with  General  Taylor,  and  the  other  generals 
and  officers,  who  were  feted  and  detain*  d  several  days  on  their  return 
victorious  from  that  expedition.) 

Of  course  many  and  very  contradictory  things,  specialties,  develop 
ments,  constitutional  views,  &c.,  went  to  make  up  the  origin  of  the 
war — but  the  most  significant  general  fact  can  be  best  indicated  and 
stated  as  follows:  For  twenty-five  years  previous  to  the  outbreak,  the 
controling  "Democratic"  nominating  conventions  of  our  Republic — 
starting  from  their  primaries  in  wards  or  districts,  and  so  expanding  to 
counties,  powerful  cities,  States,  and  to  the  great  Presidential  nominat 
ing  conventions — were  getting  to  represent  and  be  composed  of  more 
and  more  putrid  and  dangerous  materials.  Let  me  give  a  schedule,  or 


252  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

list,  of  one  of  these  representative  conventions  for  a  long  time  before, 
and  inclusive  of,  that  which  nominated  Buchanan.  (Remember  they 
had  come  to  be  the  fountains  and  tissues  of  the  American  body  politic, 
forming,  as  it  were,  the  whole  blood,  legislation,  office-holding,  &c.) 
One  of  these  conventions,  from  1840  to  '60,  exhibited  a  spectacle  such 
as  could  never  be  seen  except  in  our  own  age  and  in  these  States. 
The  members  who  composed  it  were,  seven-eighths  of  them,  the 
meanest  kind  of  bawling  and  blowing  office-holders,  office-seekers, 
pimps,  malignants,  conspirators,  murderers,  fancy-men,  custom-house 
clerks,  contractors,  kept-editors,  spaniels  well-train' d  to  carry  and 
fetch,  jobbers,  infidels,  disunionists,  terrorists,  mail-riflers,  slave- 
catchers,  pushers  of  slavery,  creatures  of  the  President,  creatures  of 
would-be  Presidents,  spies,  bribers,  compromisers,  lobbyers,  sponges, 
ruin'd  sports,  expelPd  gamblers,  policy-backers,  monte-dealers,  duel 
lists,  carriers  of  concealed  weapons,  deaf  men,  pimpled  men,  scarr'd 
inside  with  vile  disease,  gaudy  outside  with  gold  chains  made  from  the 
people's  money  and  harlots'  money  twisted  together;  crawling,  ser 
pentine  men,  the  lousy  combings  and  born  freedom-sellers  of  the  earth. 
And  whence  came  they  ?  From  back-yards  and  bar-rooms ;  from  out 
of  the  custom-houses,  marshals'  offices,  post-offices,  and  gambling- 
hells;  from  the  President's  house,  the  jail,  the  station-house;  from 
unnamed  by-places,  where  devilish  disunion  was  hatch'd  at  midnight; 
from  political  hearses,  and  from  the  coffins  inside,  and  from  the  shrouds 
inside  of  the  coffins;  from  the  tumors  and  abscesses  of  the  land;  from 
the  skeletons  and  skulls  in  the  vaults  of  the  federal  almshouses ;  and 
from  the  running  sores  of  the  great  cities.  Such,  I  say,  form'd,  or 
absolutely  controll'd  the  forming  of,  the  entire  personnel,  the  atmos 
phere,  nutriment  and  chyle,  of  our  municipal,  State,  and  National 
politics — substantially  permeating,  handling,  deciding,  and  wielding 
everything — legislation,  nominations,  elections,  "public  sentiment," 
&c. — while  the  great  masses  of  the  people,  farmers,  mechanics,  and 
traders,  were  helpless  in  their  gripe.  These  conditions  were  mostly 
prevalent  in  the  north  and  west,  and  especially  in  New  York  and 
Philadelphia  cities;  and  the  southern  leaders,  (bad  enough,  but  of  a 
far  higher  order,)  struck  hands  and  affiliated  with,  and  used  them.  Is  it 
strange  that  a  thunder-storm  follow' d  such  morbid  and  stifling  cloud-strata? 
I  say  then,  that  what,  as  just  outlined,  heralded,  and  made  the 
T**  ground  ready  for  secession  revolt,  ought  to  be  held  up,  through  all  the 
future,  as  the  most  instructive  lesson  in  American  political  history  — 
the  most  significant  warning  and  beacon-light  to  coming  generations. 
/I  say  that  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  terms  of  the 
American  Presidency  have  shown  that  the  villainy  and  shallowness  of 
rulers  (back'd  by  the  machinery  of  great  parties)  are  just  as  eligible 
to  these  States  as  to  any  foreign  despotism,  kingdom,  or  empire — there 


COLLECT  253 

is  not  a  bit  of  difference.  History  is  to  record  those  three  Presidentiads, 
and  especially  the  administrations  of  Fillmore  and  Buchanan,  as  so  far  y 
our  topmost  warning  and  shame.  Never  were  publicly  display 'd  more 
deform' d,  mediocre,  snivelling,  unreliable,  false-hearted  men.  Never 
were  these  States  so  insulted,  and  attempted  to  be  betray' d.  All  the 
main  purposes  for  which  the  government  was  establish' d  were  openly 
denied.  The  perfect  equality  of  slavery  with  freedom  was  flauntingly 
preach' d  in  the  north — nay,  the  superiority  of  slavery.  The  slave 
trade  was  proposed  to  be  renew' d.  Everywhere  frowns  and  misunder 
standings — everywhere  exasperations  and  humiliations.  (The  slavery 
contest  is  settled  —  and  the  war  is  long  over  —  yet  do  not  those  putrid 
conditions,  too  many  of  them,  still  exist?  still  result  in  diseases,  fevers, 
wounds  —  not  of  war  and  army  hospitals  —  but  the  wounds  and 
diseases  of  peace  ?) 

Out  of  those  generic  influences,  mainly  in  New  York,  Pennsylvania, 
Ohio,  &c.,  arose  the  attempt  at  disunion.  To  philosophical  examina 
tion,  the  malignant  fever  of  that  war  shows  its  embryonic  sources,  and 
the  original  nourishment  of  its  life  and  growth,  in  the  north.  I  say 
secession,  below  the  surface,  originated  and  was  brought  to  maturity  in 
the  free  States.  I  allude  to  the  score  of  years  preceding  I  860.  My 
deliberate  opinion  is  now,  that  if  at  the  opening  of  the  contest  the 
abstract  duality-question  of  slavery  and  quiet  could  have  been  submitted 
to  a  direct  popular  vote,  as  against  their  opposite,  they. would  have 
triumphantly  carried  the  day  in  a  majority  of  the  northern  States  —  in 
the  large  cities,  leading  off  with  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  by 
tremendous  majorities.  The  events  of  '61  amazed  everybody  north 
and  south,  and  burst  all  prophecies  and  calculations  like  bubbles.  But 
even  then,  and  during  the  whole  war,  the  stern  fact  remains  that  (not 
only  did  the  north  put  it  down,  but)  the  secession  cause  had  numerically  _ 
just  as  many  sympathizers  in  the  free  as  in  the  rebel  States. 

As  to  slavery,  abstractly  and  practically,  (its  idea,  and  the  deter 
mination  to  establish  and  expand  it,  especially  in  the  new  territories, 
the  future  America,)  it  is  too  common,  I  repeat,  to  identify  it  exclu 
sively  with  the  south.  In  fact  down  to  the  opening  of  the  war,  the 
whole  country  had  about  an  equal  hand  in  it.  The  north  had  at  least 
been  just  as  guilty,  if  not  more  guilty  ;  and  the  east  and  west  had. 
The  former  Presidents  and  Congresses  had  been  guilty  —  the  govern 
ors  and  legislatures  of  every  northern  State  had  been  guilty,  and  the 
mayors  of  New  York  and  other  northern  cities  had  all  been  guilty  — 
their  hands  were  all  stain' d.  And  as  the  conflict  took  decided  shape, 
it  is  hard  to  tell  which  class,  the  leading  southern  or  northern  dis- 
unionists,  was  more  stunn'd  and  disappointed  at  the  non-action  of  the 
free-State  secession  element,  so  largely  existing  and  counted  on  by  those 
leaders,  both  sections. 


254  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

So  much  for  that  point,  and  for  the  north.  As  to  the  inception  and 
direct  instigation  of  the  war,  in  the  south  itself,  I  shall  not  attempt 
interiors  or  complications.  Behind  all,  the  idea  that  it  was  from  a 
resolute  and  arrogant  determination  on  the  part  of  the  extreme  slave 
holders,  the  Calhounites,  to  carry  the  States-rights*  portion  of  the 
constitutional  compact  to  its  farthest  verge,  and  nationalize  slavery,  or 
else  disrupt  the  Union,  and  found  a  new  empire,  with  slavery  for  its 
corner-stone,  was  and  is  undoubtedly  the  true  theory.  (If  successful, 
this  attempt  might  —  I  am  not  sure,  but  it  might  —  have  destroyed  not 
only  our  American  republic,  in  anything  like  first-class  proportions,  in 
itself  and  its  prestige,  but  for  ages  at  least,  the  cause  of  Liberty  and 
Equality  everywhere  —  and  would  have  been  the  greatest  triumph  of 
reaction,  and  the  severest  blow  to  political  and  every  other  freedom, 
possible  to  conceive.  Its  worst  result  would  have  inured  to  the  south 
ern  States  themselves.)  That  our  national  democratic  experiment, 
principle,  and  machinery,  could  triumphantly  sustain  such  a  shock,  and 
that  the  Constitution  could  weather  it,  like  a  ship  a  storm,  and  come 
out  of  it  as  sound  and  whole  as  before,  is  by  far  the  most  signal  proof 
yet  of  the  stability  of  that  experiment,  Democracy,  and  of  those  prin 
ciples,  and  that  Constitution. 

Of  the  war  itself,  we  know  in  the  ostent  what  has  been  done.  The 
numbers  of  the  dead  and  wounded  can  be  told  or  approximated,  the 
debt  posted  and  put  on  record,  the  material  events  narrated,  &c. 
Meantime,  elections  go  on,  laws  are  pass'd,  political  parties  struggle, 
issue  their  platforms,  &c.,  just  the  same  as  before.  But  immensest 
results,  not  only  in  politics,  but  in  literature,  poems,  and  sociology, 
are  doubtless  waiting  yet  unform'd  in  the  future.  How  long  they 
will  wait  I  cannot  tell.  The  pageant  of  history's  retrospect  shows  us, 
ages  since,  all  Europe  marching  on  the  crusades,  those  arm'd  uprisings 
of  the  people,  stirr'd  by  a  mere  idea,  to  grandest  attempt  —  and, 
when  once  baffled  in  it,  returning,  at  intervals,  twice,  thrice,  and 
again.  An  unsurpass'd  series  of  revolutionary  events,  influences.  Yet  it 
took  over  two  hundred  years  for  the  seeds  of  the  crusades  to  germinate, 
before  beginning  even  to  sprout.  Two  hundred  years  they  lay,  sleep 
ing,  not  dead,  but  dormant  in  the  ground.  Then,  out  of  them,  un 
erringly,  arts,  travel,  navigation,  politics,  literature,  freedom,  the  spirit 
of  adventure,  inquiry,  all  arose,  grew,  and  steadily  sped  on  to  what 
we  see  at  present.  Far  back  there,  that  huge  agitation- struggle  of  the 
crusades  stands,  as  undoubtedly  the  embryo,  the  start,  of  the  high 
preeminence  of  experiment,  civilization  and  enterprise  which  the 
European  nations  have  since  sustain'  d,  and  of  which  these  States  are 
the  heirs. 

Another  illustration  —  (history  is  full  of  them,  although  the  war 
itself,  the  victory  of  the  Union,  and  the  relations  of  our  equal  States, 


COLLECT  255 

present  features  of  which  there  are  no  precedents  in  the  past. )  The 
conquest  of  England  eight  centuries  ago,  by  the  Franco-Normans  — 
the  obliteration  of  the  old,  (in  many  respects  so  needing  obliteration) 
the  Domesday  Book,  and  the  repartition  of  the  land  —  the  old  im 
pedimenta  removed,  even  by  blood  and  ruthless  violence,  and  a  new, 
progressive  genesis  establish' d,  new  seeds  sown — time  has  proved 
plain  enough  that,  bitter  as  they  were,  all  these  were  the  most  salu 
tary  series  of  revolutions  that  could  possibly  have  happen' d.  Out  of 
them,  and  by  them  mainly,  have  come,  out  of  Albic,  Roman  and 
Saxon  England  —  and  without  them  could  not  have  come  —  not  only 
the  England  of  the  500  years  down  to  the  present,  and  of  the  present 

but   these  States.      Nor,    except  for  that  terrible  dislocation   and 

overturn,  would  these  States,  as  they  are,  exist  to-day. 

It  is  certain  to  me  that  the  United  States,  by  virtue  of  that  war  and 
its  results,  and  through  that  and  them  only,  are  now  ready  to  enter, 
and  must  certainly  enter,  upon  their  genuine  career  in  history,  as  no 
more  torn  and  divided  in  their  spinal  requisites,  but  a  great  homoge 
neous  Nation  —  free  States  all  —  a  moral  and  political  unity  in  variety, 
such  as  Nature  shows  in  her  grandest  physical  works,  and  as  much 
greater  than  any  mere  work  of  Nature,  as  the  moral  and  political,  the 
work  of  man,  his  mind,  his  soul,  are,  in  their  loftiest  sense,  greater 
than  the  merely  physical.  Out  of  that  war  not  only  has  the  nationality  \ 
of  the  States  escaped  from  being  strangled,  but  more  than  any  of  the 
rest,  and,  in  my  opinion,  more  than  the  north  itself,  the  vital  heart 
and  breath  of  the  south  have  escaped  as  from  the  pressure  of  a  general 
nightmare,  and  are  henceforth  to  enter  on  a  life,  development,  and 
active  freedom,  whose  realities  are  certain  in  the  future,  notwithstand 
ing  all  the  southern  vexations  of  the  hour  —  a  development  which 
could  not  possibly  have  been  achiev'd  on  any  less  terms,  or  by  any 
other  means  than  that  grim  lesson,  or  something  equivalent  to  it. 
And  I  predict  that  the  south  is  yet  to  outstrip  the  north. 


18 


PREFACES    TO    "LEAVES 
OF  GRASS" 


PREFACE,  1855  AMERICA  does  not  repel  the  past,  or  what 

To  first  issue  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  the  past  has  produced  under  its  forms,  or 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  amid  otner  politics,  or  the  idea  of  castes, 

or  the  old  religions  —  accepts  the  lesson 

with  calmness  —  is  not  impatient  because  the  slough  still  sticks  to 
opinions  and  manners  in  literature,  while  the  life  which  served  its  re 
quirements  has  passed  into  the  new  life  of  the  new  forms  —  perceives 
that  the  corpse  is  slowly  borne  from  the  eating  and  sleeping  rooms  of 
the  house  —  perceives  that  it  waits  a  little  while  in  the  door  —  that  it 
was  fittest  for  its  days  —  that  its  action  has  descended  to  the  stalwart  and 
well-shaped  heir  who  approaches  —  and  that  he  shall  be  fittest  for  his 
days. 

The  Americans  of  all  nations  at  any  time  upon  the  earth,  have 
probably  the  fullest  poetical  nature.  The  United  States  themselves 
are  essentially  the  greatest  poem.  In  the  history  of  the  earth  hitherto, 
the  largest  and  most  stirring  appear  tame  and  orderly  to  their  ampler 
largeness  and  stir.  Here  at  last  is  something  in  the  doings  of  man  that 
corresponds  with  the  broadcast  doings  of  the  day  and  night.  Here  is 
action  untied  from  strings,  necessarily  blind  to  particulars  and  details, 
magnificently  moving  in  masses.  Here  is  the  hospitality  which  for  ever 
indicates  heroes.  Here  the  performance,  disdaining  the  trivial,  un- 
approach'd  in  the  tremendous  audacity  of  its  crowds  and  groupings, 
and  the  push  of  its  perspective,  spreads  with  crampless  and  flowing 
breadth,  and  showers  its  prolific  and  splendid  extravagance.  One 
sees  it  must  indeed  own  the  riches  of  the  summer  and  winter,  and  need 
never  be  bankrupt  while  corn  grows  from  the  ground,  or  the  orchards 
drop  apples,  or  the  bays  contain  fish,  or  men  beget  children  upon 
women. 

Other  states  indicate  themselves  in  their  deputies  —  but  the  genius 
of  the  United  States  is  not  best  or  most  in  its  executives  or  legislatures, 
nor  in  its  ambassadors  or  authors,  or  colleges  or  churches  or  parlors, 


COLLECT  257 

nor  even  in  its  newspapers  or  inventors  —  but  always  most  in  the 
common  people,  south,  north,  west,  east,  in  all  its  States,  through  all 
its  mighty  amplitude.  The  largeness  of  the  nation,  however,  were 
monstrous  without  a  corresponding  largeness  and  generosity  of  the 
spirit  of  the  citizen.  Not  swarming  states,  nor  streets  and  steam 
ships,  nor  prosperous  business,  nor  farms,  nor  capital,  nor  learning, 
may  suffice  for  the  ideal  of  man  —  nor  suffice  the  poet.  No  reminis 
cences  may  suffice  either.  A  live  nation  can  always  cut  a  deep  mark, 
and  can  have  the  best  authority  the  cheapest  —  namely,  from  its  own 
soul.  This  is  the  sum  of  the  profitable  uses  of  individuals  or  states, 
and  of  present  action  and  grandeur,  and  of  the  subjects  of  poets.  (As 
if  it  were  necessary  to  trot  back  generation  after  generation  to  the 
eastern  records  !  As  if  the  beauty  and  sacredness  of  the  demonstrable 
must  fall  behind  that  of  the  mythical  !  As  if  men  do  not  make  their 
mark  out  of  any  times  !  As  if  the  opening  of  the  western  continent  by 
discovery,  and  what  has  transpired  in  North  and  South  America,  were 
less  than  the  small  theatre  of  the  antique,  or  the  aimless  sleep-walking 
of  the  middle  ages ! )  The  pride  of  the  United  States  leaves  the  wealth 
and  finesse  of  the  cities,  and  all  returns  of  commerce  and  agriculture, 
and  all  the  magnitude  of  geography  or  shows  of  exterior  victory,  to 
enjoy  the  sight  and  realization  of  full-sized  men,  or  one  full-sized  man 
unconquerable  and  simple. 

The  American  poets  are  to  enclose  old  and  new,  for  America  is  the 
race  of  races.  The  expression  of  the  American  poet  is  to  be  transcen 
dent  and  new.  It  is  to  be  indirect,  and  not  direct  or  descriptive  or 
epic.  Its  quality  goes  through  these  to  much  more.  Let  the  age  and 
wars  of  other  nations  be  chanted,  and  their  eras  and  characters  be 
illustrated,  and  that  finish  the  verse.  Not  so  the  great  psalm  of  the 
republic.  Here  the  theme  is  creative,  and  has  vista.  Whatever  stag 
nates  in  the  flat  of  custom  or  obedience  or  legislation,  the  great  poet 
never  stagnates.  Obedience  does  not  master  him,  he  masters  it. 
High  up  out  of  reach  he  stands,  turning  a  concentrated  light  —  he 
turns  the  pivot  with  his  finger  —  he  baffles  the  swiftest  runners  as  he 
stands,  and  easily  overtakes  and  envelopes  them.  The  time  straying 
toward  infidelity  and  confections  and  persiflage  he  withholds  by  steady 
faith.  Faith  is  the  antiseptic  of  the  soul  —  it  pervades  the  common 
people  and  preserves  them  —  they  never  give  up  believing  and  expect 
ing  and  trusting.  There  is  that  indescribable  freshness  and  uncon 
sciousness  about  an  illiterate  person,  that  humbles  and  mocks  the  power 
of  the  noblest  expressive  genius.  The  poet  sees  for  a  certainty  how 
one  not  a  great  artist  may  be  just  as  sacred  and  perfect  as  the  greatest 
artist. 

The  power    to  destroy  or  remould  is  freely  used    by  the  greatest 
poet,  but  seldom  the  power  of  attack.      What  is  past  is  past.      If  he 


258  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

does  not  expose  superior  models,  and  prove  himself  by  every  step  he 
takes,  he  is  not  what  is  wanted.  The  presence  of  the  great  poet 
conquers  —  not  parleying,  or  struggling,  or  any  prepared  attempts. 
Now  he  has  passed  that  way,  see  after  him  !  There  is  not  left  any 
vestige  of  despair,  or  misanthropy,  or  cunning,  or  exclusiveness,  or 
the  ignominy  of  a  nativity  or  color,  or  delusion  of  hell  or  the  neces 
sity  of  hell  —  and  no  man  thenceforward  shall  be  degraded  for 
ignorance  or  weakness  or  sin.  The  greatest  poet  hardly  knows 
pettiness  or  triviality.  If  he  breathes  into  anything  that  was  before 
thought  small,  it  dilates  with  the  grandeur  and  life  of  the  universe. 
He  is  a  seer  —  he  is  individual  —  he  is  complete  in  himself —  the 
others  are  as  good  as  he,  only  he  sees  it,  and  they  do  not.  He  is 
not  one  of  the  chorus  —  he  does  not  stop  for  any  regulation  —  he 
is  the  president  of  regulation.  What  the  eyesight  does  to  the  rest, 
he  does  to  the  rest.  Who  knows  the  curious  mystery  of  the  eye 
sight  ?  The  other  senses  corroborate  themselves,  but  this  is  removed 
from  any  proof  but  its  own,  and  foreruns  the  identities  of  the  spiritual 
world.  A  single  glance  of  it  mocks  all  the  investigations  of  man, 
and  all  the  instruments  and  books  of  the  earth,  and  all  reasoning. 
What  is  marvellous  ?  what  is  unlikely  ?  what  is  impossible  or  baseless 
or  vague  —  after  you  have  once  just  open'd  the  space  of  a  peach-pit, 
and  given  audience  to  far  and  near,  and  to  the  sunset,  and  had  all 
things  enter  with  electric  swiftness,  softly  and  duly,  without  con 
fusion  or  jostling  or  Jam  ? 

The  land  and  sea,  the  animals,  fishes  and  birds,  the  sky  of  heaven 
and  the  orbs,  the  forests,  mountains  and  rivers,  are  not  small  themes 
—  but  folks  expect  of  the  poet  to  indicate  more  than  the  beauty  and 
dignity  which  always  attach  to  dumb  real  objects  —  they  expect  him 
to  indicate  the  path  between  reality  and  their  souls.  Men  and 
women  perceive  the  beauty  well  enough  —  probably  as  well  as  he. 
The  passionate  tenacity  of  hunters,  woodmen,  early  risers,  culti 
vators  of  gardens  and  orchards  and  fields,  the  love  of  healthy  women 
for  the  manly  form,  seafaring  persons,  drivers  of  horses,  the  passion 
for  light  and  the  open  air,  all  is  an  old  varied  sign  of  the  unfailing 
perception  of  beauty,  and  of  a  residence  of  the  poetic  in  out-door 
people.  They  can  never  be  assisted  by  poets  to  perceive  —  some 
may,  but  they  never  can.  The  poetic  quality  is  not  marshal' d  in 
rhyme  or  uniformity,  or  abstract  addresses  to  things,  nor  in  melan 
choly  complaints  or  good  precepts,  but  is  the  life  of  these  and  much 
else,  and  is  in  the  soul.  The  profit  of  rhyme  is  that  it  drops  seeds 
of  a  sweeter  and  more  luxuriant  rhyme,  and  of  uniformity  that  it 
conveys  itself  into  its  own  roots  in  the  ground  out  of  sight.  The 
rhyme  and  uniformity  of  perfect  poems  show  the  free  growth  of 
metrical  laws,  and  bud  from  them  as  unerringly  and  loosely  as  lilacs 


COLLECT  259 

and  roses  on  a  bush,  and  take  shapes  as  compact  as  the  shapes  of 
chestnuts  and  oranges,  and  melons  and  pears,  and  shed  the  perfume 
impalpable  to  form.  The  fluency  and  ornaments  of  the  finest  poems 
or  music  or  orations  or  recitations,  are  not  independent  but  dependent. 
All  beauty  comes  from  beautiful  blood  and  a  beautiful  brain.  If  the 
greatnesses  are  in  conjunction  in  a  man  or  woman,  it  is  enough  — 
the  fact  will  prevail  through  the  universe ;  but  the  gaggery  and  gilt 
of  a  million  years  will  not  prevail.  Who  troubles  himself  about  his 
ornaments  or  fluency  i>  lost.  This  is  what  you  shall  do :  Love  the 
earth  and  sun  and  the  animals,  despise  riches,  give  alms  to  every  one 
that  asks,  stand  up  for  the  stupid  and  crazy,  devote  your  income  and 
labor  to  others,  hate  tyrants,  argue  not  concerning  God,  have 
patience  and  indulgence  toward  the  people,  take  off  your  hat  to 
nothing  known  or  unknown,  or  to  any  man  or  number  of  men  —  go 
freely  with  powerful  uneducated  persons,  and  with  the  young,  and 
with  the  mothers  of  families  —  re-examine  all  you  have  been  told  in 
school  or  church  or  in  any  book,  and  dismiss  whatever  insults  your 
own  soul ;  and  your  very  flesh  shall  be  a  great  poem,  and  have  the 
richest  fluency,  not  only  in  its  words,  but  in  the  silent  lines  of  its  lips 
and  face,  and  between  the  lashes  of  your  eyes,  and  in  every  motion 
and  joint  of  your  body.  The  poet  shall  not  spend  his  time  in 
unneeded  work.  He  shall  know  that  the  ground  is  already  plough* d 
and  manured ;  others  may  not  know  it,  but  he  shall.  He  shall  go 
directly  to  the  creation.  His  trust  shall  master  the  trust  of  every 
thing  he  touches  —  and  shall  master  all  attachment. 

The  known  universe  has  one  complete  lover,  and  that  is  the  great 
est  poet.  He  consumes  an  eternal  passion,  and  is  indifferent  which 
chance  happens,  and  which  possible  contingency  of  fortune  or  mis 
fortune,  and  persuades  daily  and  hourly  his  delicious  pay.  What 
balks  or  breaks  others  is  fuel  for  his  burning  progress  to  contact  and 
amorous  joy.  Other  proportions  of  the  reception  of  pleasure  dwindle 
to  nothing  to  his  proportions.  All  expected  from  heaven  or  from 
the  highest,  he  is  rapport  with  in  the  sight  of  the  daybreak,  or  the 
scenes  of  the  winter  woods,  or  the  presence  of  children  playing,  or 
with  his  arm  round  the  neck  of  a  man  or  woman.  His  love  above 
all  love  has  leisure  and  expanse  —  he  leaves  room  ahead  of  himself. 
He  is  no  irresolute  or  suspicious  lover  —  he  is  sure  —  he  scorns 
intervals.  His  experience  and  the  showers  and  thrills  are  not  for 
nothing.  Nothing  can  jar  him  —  suffering  and  darkness  cannot  - 
death  and  fear  cannot.  To  him  complaint  and  jealousy  and  envy 
are  corpses  buried  and  rotten  in  the  earth  —  he  saw  them  buried. 
The  sea  is  not  surer  of  the  shore,  or  the  shore  of  the  sea,  than  he  is 
the  fruition  of  his  love,  and  of  all  perfection  and  beauty. 

The  fruition  of  beauty  is  no  chance  of  miss  or  hit  —  it  is  as  inevi- 


260  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

table  as  life — it  is  exact  and  plumb  as  gravitation.  From  the  eye 
sight  proceeds  another  eyesight,  and  from  the  hearing  proceeds 
another  hearing,  and  from  the  voice  proceeds  another  voice,  eternally 
curious  of  the  harmony  of  things  with  man.  These  understand  the 
law  of  perfection  in  masses  and  floods  —  that  it  is  profuse  and  impartial 
— that  there  is  not  a  minute  of  the  light  or  dark,  nor  an  acre  of  the 
earth  and  sea,  without  it  —  nor  any  direction  of  the  sky,  nor  any 
trade  or  employment,  nor  any  turn  of  events.  This  is  the  reason  that 
about  the  proper  expression  of  beauty  there  is  precision  and  balance. 
One  part  does  not  need  to  be  thrust  above  another.  The  best  singer 
is  not  the  one  who  has  the  most  lithe  and  powerful  organ.  The 
pleasure  of  poems  is  not  in  them  that  take  the  handsomest  measure 
and  sound. 

Without  effort,  and  without  exposing  in  the  least  how  it  is  do  e, 
the  greatest  poet  brings  the  spirit  of  any  or  all  events  and  passions 
and  scenes  and  persons,  some  more  and  some  less,  to  bear  on  your 
individual  character  as  you  hear  or  read.  To  do  this  well  is  to  com 
pete  with  the  laws  that  pursue  and  follow  Time.  What  is  the 
purpose  must  surely  be  there,  and  the  clue  of  it  must  be  there  —  and 
the  faintest  indication  is  the  indication  of  the  best,  and  then  becomes 
the  clearest  indication.  Past  and  present  and  future  are  not  disjoin' d 
but  join'd.  The  greatest  poet  forms  the  consistence  of  what  is  to  be, 
from  what  has  been  and  is.  He  drags  the  dead  out  of  their  coffins 
and  stands  them  again  on  their  feet.  He  says  to  the  past,  Rise  and 
walk  before  me  that  I  may  realize  you.  He  learns  the  lesson  —  he 
places  himself  where  the  future  becomes  present.  The  greatest  poet 
does  not  only  dazzle  his  rays  over  character  and  scenes  and  passions  — 
he  finally  ascends,  and  finishes  all  —  he  exhibits  the  pinnacles  that  no 
man  can  tell  what  they  are  for,  or  what  is  beyond  —  he  glows  a 
moment  on  the  extremest  verge.  He  is  most  wonderful  in  his  last 
half-hidden  smile  or  frown  ;  by  that  flash  of  the  moment  of  parting 
the  one  that  sees  it  shall  be  encouraged  or  terrified  afterward  for  many 
years.  The  greatest  poet  does  not  moralize  or  make  applications  of 
morals  —  he  knows  the  soul.  The  soul  has  that  measureless  pride 
which  consists  in  never  acknowledging  any  lessons  or  deductions  but 
its  own.  But  it  has  sympathy  as  measureless  as  its  pride,  and  the  one 
balances  the  other,  and  neither  can  stretch  too  far  while  it  stretches  in 
company  with  the  other.  The  inmost  secrets  of  art  sleep  with  the 
twain.  The  greatest  poet  has  lain  close  betwixt  both,  and  they  are 
vital  in  his  style  and  thoughts. 

The  art  of  art,  the  glory  of  expression  and  the  sunshine  of  the  light 
of  letters,  is  simplicity.  Nothing  is  better  than  simplicity — nothing 
can  make  up  for  excess,  or  for  the  lack  of  definiteness.  To  carry  on 
the  heave  of  impulse  and  pierce  intellectual  depths  and  give  all  subjects 


COLLECT  261 

their  articulations,  are  powers  neither  common  nor  very  uncommon. 
But  to  speak  in  literature  with  the  perfect  rectitude  and  insouciance  of 
the  movements  of  animals,  and  the  unimpeachableness  of  the  sentiment 
of  trees  in  the  woods  and  grass  by  the  roadside,  is  the  flawless  triumph 
of  art.  If  you  have  look'd  on  him  who  has  achieved  it  you  have  look'd 
on  one  of  the  masters  of  the  artists  of  all  nations  and  times.  You  shall 
not  contemplate  the  flight  of  the  gray  gull  over  the  bay,  or  the  mettle 
some  action  of  the  blood  horse,  or  the  tall  leaning  of  sunflowers  on 
their  stalk,  or  the  appearance  of  the  sun  journeying  through  heaven, 
or  the  appearance  of  the  moon  afterward,  with  any  more  satisfaction 
than  you  shall  contemplate  him.  The  great  poet  has  less  a  mark'd 
style,  and  is  more  the  channel  of  thoughts  and  things  without  increase 
or  diminution,  and  is  the  free  channel  of  himself.  He  swears  to  his 
art,  I  will  not  be  meddlesome,  I  will  not  have  in  my  writing  any 
elegance,  or  effect,  or  originality,  to  hang  in  the  way  between  me  and 
the  rest  like  curtains.  I  will  have  nothing  hang  in  the  way,  not  the 
richest  curtains.  What  I  tell  I  tell  for  precisely  what  it  is.  Let  who 
may  exalt  or  startle  or  fascinate  or  soothe,  I  will  have  purposes  as 
health  or  heat  or  snow  has,  and  be  as  regardless  of  observation. 
What  I  experience  or  portray  shall  go  from  my  composition  without 
a  shred  of  my  composition.  You  shall  stand  by  my  side  and  look  in 
the  mirror  with  me. 

The  old  red  blood  and  stainless  gentility  of  great  poets  will  be 
proved  by  their  unconstraint.  A  heroic  person  walks  at  his  ease 
through  and  out  of  that  custom  or  precedent  or  authority  that  suits 
him  not.  Of  the  traits  of  the  brotherhood  of  first-class  writers, 
savans,  musicians,  inventors  and  artists,  nothing  is  finer  than  silent 
defiance  advancing  from  new  free  forms.  In  the  need  of  poems, 
philosophy,  politics,  mechanism,  science,  behavior,  the  craft  of  art, 
an  appropriate  native  grand  opera,  shipcraft,  or  any  craft,  he  is  greatest 
for  ever  and  ever  who  contributes  the  greatest  original  practical  example. 
The  cleanest  expression  is  that  which  finds  no  sphere  worthy  of  itself, 
and  makes  one. 

The  messages  of  great  poems  to  each  man  and  woman  are,  Come 
to  us  on  equal  terms,  only  then  can  you  understand  us.  We  are  no 
better  than  you,  what  we  inclose  you  inclose,  what  we  enjoy  you  may 
enjoy.  Did  you  suppose  there  could  be  only  one  Supreme  ?  We 
affirm  there  can  be  unnumber'd  Supremes,  and  that  one  does  not 
countervail  another  any  more  than  one  eyesight  countervails  another  — 
and  that  men  can  be  good  or  grand  only  of  the  consciousness  of  their 
supremacy  within  them.  What  do  you  think  is  the  grandeur  of 
storms  and  dismemberments,  and  the  deadliest  battles  and  wrecks,  and 
the  wildest  fury  of  the  elements,  and  the  power  of  the  sea,  and  the 
motion  of  Nature,  and  the  throes  of  human  desires,  and  dignity  and 


262  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

hate  and  love  ?  It  is  that  something  in  the  soul  which  says,  Rage  on, 
whirl  on,  I  tread  master  here  and  everywhere  —  Master  of  the  spasms 
of  the  sky  and  of  the  shatter  of  the  sea,  Master  of  nature  and  passion 
and  death,  and  of  all  terror  and  all  pain. 

The  American  bards  shall  be  mark'd  for  generosity  and  affection, 
and  for  encouraging  competitors.  They  shall  be  Kosmos,  without 
monopoly  or  secrecy,  glad  to  pass  anything  to  any  one  —  hungry  for 
equals  night  and  day.  They  shall  not  be  careful  of  riches  and  privi 
lege —  they  shall  be  riches  and  privilege — they  shall  perceive  who  the 
most  affluent  man  is.  The  most  affluent  man  is  he  that  confronts  all 
the  shows  he  sees  by  equivalents  out  of  the  stronger  wealth  of  himself. 
The  American  bard  shall  delineate  no  class  of  persons,  nor  one  or  two 
out  of  the  strata  of  interests,  nor  love  most  nor  truth  most,  nor  the  soul 
most,  nor  the  body  most — and  not  be  for  the  Eastern  States  more  than 
the  Western,  or  the  Northern  States  more  than  the  Southern. 

Exact  science  and  its  practical  movements  are  no  checks  on  the 
greatest  poet,  but  always  his  encouragement  and  support.  The  outset 
and  remembrance  are  there  —  there  the  arms  that  lifted  him  first,  and 
braced  him  best — there  he  returns  after  all  his  goings  and  comings. 
The  sailor  and  traveler  —  the  anatomist,  chemist,  astronomer,  geolo 
gist,  phrenologist,  spiritualist,  mathematician,  historian,  and  lexicog 
rapher,  are  not  poets,  but  they  are  the  lawgivers  of  poets,  and  their 
construction  underlies  the  structure  of  every  perfect  poem.  No  mat 
ter  what  rises  or  is  utter' d,  they  sent  the  seed  of  the  conception  of  it 
—  of  them  and  by  them  stand  the  visible  proofs  of  souls.  If  there 
shall  be  love  and  content  between  the  father  and  the  son,  and  if  the 
greatness  of  the  son  is  the  exuding  of  the  greatness  of  the  father,  there 
shall  be  love  between  the  poet  and  the  man  of  demonstrable  science. 
In  the  beauty  of  poems  are  henceforth  the  tuft  and  final  applause  of 
science. 

Great  is  the  faith  of  the  flush  of  knowledge,  and  of  the  investigation 
of  the  depths  of  qualities  and  things.  Cleaving  and  circling  here 
swells  the  soul  of  the  poet,  yet  is  president  of  itself  always.  The 
depths  are  fathomless,  and  therefore  calm.  The  innocence  and  naked 
ness  are  resumed  —  they  are  neither  modest  nor  immodest.  The 
whole  theory  of  the  supernatural,  and  all  that  was  twined  with  it  or 
educed  out  of  it,  departs  as  a  dream.  What  has  ever  happen' d  — 
what  happens,  and  whatever  may  or  shall  happen,  the  vital  laws 
inclose  all.  They  are  sufficient  for  any  case  and  for  all  cases  —  none 
to  be  hurried  or  retarded  —  any  special  miracle  of  affairs  or  persons  in 
admissible  in  the  vast  clear  scheme  where  every  motion  and  every 
spear  of  grass,  and  the  frames  and  spirits  of  men  and  women  and  all 
that  concerns  them,  are  unspeakably  perfect  miracles,  all  referring  to 
all,  and  each  distinct  and  in  its  place.  It  is  also  not  consistent  with 


COLLECT  263 

the  reality  of  the  soul  to  admit  that  there  is  anything  in  the  known 
universe  more  divine  than  men  and  women. 

Men  and  women,  and  the  earth  and  all  upon  it,  are  to  be  taken  as 
they  are,  and  the  investigation  of  their  past  and  present  and  future 
shall  be  unintermitted,  and  shall  be  done  with  perfect  candor.  Upon 
this  basis  philosophy  speculates,  ever  looking  towards  the  poet,  ever 
regarding  the  eternal  tendencies  of  all  toward  happiness,  never  incon 
sistent  with  what  is  clear  to  the  senses  and  to  the  soul.  For  the 
eternal  tendencies  of  all  toward  happiness  make  the  only  point  of  sane 
philosophy.  Whatever  comprehends  less  than  that  —  whatever  is  less 
than  the  laws  of  light  and  of  astronomical  motion  —  or  less  than  the 
laws  that  follow  the  thief,  the  liar,  the  glutton  and  the  drunkard, 
through  this  life  and  doubtless  afterward  —  or  less  than  vast  stretches 
of  time,  or  the  slow  formation  of  density,  or  the  patient  upheaving  of 
strata  —  is  of  no  account.  Whatever  would  put  God  in  a  poem  or 
system  of  philosophy  as  contending  against  some  being  or  influence,  is 
also  of  no  account.  Sanity  and  ensemble  characterize  the  great  master 
—  spoilt  in  one  principle,  all  is  spoilt.  The  great  master  has  nothing 
to  do  with  miracles.  He  sees  health  for  himself  in  being  one  of  the 

mass he  sees  the  hiatus  in  singular  eminence.      To  the  perfect  shape 

comes  common  ground.  To  be  under  the  general  law  is  great,  for 
that  is  to  correspond  with  it.  The  master  knows  that  he  is  unspeak 
ably  great,  and  that  all  are  unspeakably  great  —  that  nothing,  for  in 
stance,  is  greater  than  to  conceive  children,  and  bring  them  up  well— 
that  to  be  is  just  as  great  as  to  perceive  or  tell. 

In  the  make  of  the  great  masters  the  idea  of  political  liberty  is  indis 
pensable.  Liberty  takes  the  adherence  of  heroes  wherever  man  and 

woman  exist but  never  takes   any  adherence  or  welcome  from  the 

rest  more  than  from  poets.  They  are  the  voice  and  exposition  of 
liberty.  They  out  of  ages  are  worthy  the  grand  idea  —  to  them  it  is 
confided,  and  they  must  sustain  it.  Nothing  has  precedence  of  it,  and 
nothing  can  warp  or  degrade  k. 

As  the  attributes  of  the  poets  of  the  kosmos  concentre  in  the  real 
body,  and  in  the  pleasure  of  things,  they  possess  the  superiority  of 
genuineness  over  all  fiction  and  romance.  As  they  emit  themselves, 
facts  are  shower' d  over  with  light --the  daylight  is  lit  with  more  vol 
atile  light  —  the  deep  between  the  setting  and  rising  sun  goes  deeper 
many  fold.  Each  precise  object  or  condition  or  combination  or 
process  exhibits  a  beauty  —  the  multiplication  table  its  —  old  age  its 

«-  the  carpenter's  trade  its  —  the  grand  opera  its  —  the  huge-hull 'd 
clean-shap'd  New  York  clipper  at  sea  under  steam  or  full  sail  gleams 
with  unmatched  beauty  —  the  American  circles  and  large  harmonies 
of  government  gleam  with  theirs  — and  the  commonest  definite  inten 
tions  and  actions  with  theirs.  The  poets  of  the  kosmos  advance 


264  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

through  all  interpositions  and  coverings  and  turmoils  and  stratagems  to 
first  principles.  They  are  of  use  —  they  dissolve  poverty  from  its 
need,  and  riches  from  its  conceit.  You  large  proprietor,  they  say, 
shall  not  realize  or  perceive  more  than  any  one  else.  The  owner  of 
the  library  is  not  he  who  holds  a  legal  title  to  it,  having  bought  and 
paid  for  it.  Any  one  and  every  one  is  owner  of  the  library,  (indeed 
he  or  she  alone  is  owner,)  who  can  read  the  same  through  all  the 
varieties  of  tongues  and  subjects  and  styles,  and  in  whom  they  enter  with 
ease,  and  make  supple  and  powerful  and  rich  and  large. 

These  American  States,  strong  and  healthy  and  accomplish' d,  shall 
receive  no  pleasure  from  violations  of  natural  models,  and  must  not 
permit  them.  In  paintings  or  mouldings  or  carvings  in  mineral  or 
wood,  or  in  the  illustrations  of  books  or  newspapers,  or  in  the  patterns 
of  woven  stuffs,  or  anything  to  beautify  rooms  or  furniture  or  costumes, 
or  to  put  upon  cornices  or  monuments,  or  on  the  prows  or  sterns  of 
ships,  or  to  put  anywhere  before  the  human  eye  indoors  or  out,  that 
which  distorts  honest  shapes,  or  which  creates  unearthly  beings  or 
places  or  contingencies,  is  a  nuisance  and  revolt.  Of  the  human  form 
especially,  it  is  so  great  it  must  never  be  made  ridiculous.  Of  orna 
ments  to  a  work  nothing  outre  can  be  allow' d  —  but  those  ornaments 
can  be  allow' d  that  conform  to  the  perfect  facts  of  the  open  air,  and 
that  flow  out  of  the  nature  of  the  work,  and  come  irrepressibly  from 
it,  and  are  necessary  to  the  completion  of  the  work.  Most  works  are 
most  beautiful  without  ornament.  Exaggerations  will  be  revenged  in 
human  physiology.  Clean  and  vigorous  children  are  jetted  and  con- 
ceiv'd  only  in  those  communities  where  the  models  of  natural  forms 
are  public  every  day.  Great  genius  and  the  people  of  these  States 
must  never  be  demean' d  to  romances.  As  soon  as  histories  are 
properly  told,  no  more  need  of  romances. 

The  great  poets  are  to  be  known  by  the  absence  in  them  of  tricks, 
and  by  the  justification  of  perfect  personal  candor.  All  faults  may  be 
forgiven  of  him  who  has  perfect  candor.  Henceforth  let  no  man  of 
us  lie,  for  we  have  seen  that  openness  wins  the  inner  and  outer  world, 
and  that  there  is  no  single  exception,  and  that  never  since  our  earth 
gather' d  itself  in  a  mass  have  deceit  or  subterfuge  or  prevarication 
attracted  its  smallest  particle  or  the  faintest  tinge  of  a  shade  —  and  that 
through  the  enveloping  wealth  and  rank  of  a  state,  or  the  whole 
republic  of  states,  a  sneak  or  sly  person  shall  be  discover' d  and  despised 
—  and  that  the  soul  has  never  once  been  fool'd  and  never  can  be 
fool'd  —  and  thrift  without  the  loving  nod  of  the  soul  is  only  a  foetid 
puff —  and  there  never  grew  up  in  any  of  the  continents  of  the  globe, 
nor  upon  any  planet  or  satellite,  nor  in  that  condition  which  precedes 
the  birth  of  babes,  nor  at  any  time  during  the  changes  of  life,  nor  in 
any  stretch  of  abeyance  or  action  of  vitality,  nor  in  any  process  of 


COLLECT  265 

formation  or  reformation  anywhere,  a  being  whose  instinct  hated  the 
truth. 

Extreme  caution  or  prudence,  the  soundest  organic  health,  large 
hope  and  comparison  and  fondness  for  women  and  children,  large 
alimentiveness  and  destiuctiveness  and  causality,  with  a  perfect  sense 
of  the  oneness  of  nature,  and  the  propriety  of  the  same  spirit  applied 
to  human  affairs,  are  called  up  of  the  float  of  the  brain  of  the  world  to 
be  parts  of  the.  greatest  poet  from  his  birth  out  of  his  mother's  womb, 
and  from  her  birth  out  of  her  mother's.  Caution  seldom  goes  far 
enough.  It  has  been  thought  that  the  prudent  citizen  was  the  citizen 
who  applied  himself  to  solid  gains,  and  did  well  for  himself  and  for 
his  family,  and  completed  a  lawful  life  without  debt  or  crime.  The 
greatest  poet  sees  and  admits  these  economies  as  he  sees  the  economies 
of  food  and  sleep,  but  has  higher  notions  of  prudence  than  to  think  he 
gives  much  when  he  gives  a  few  slight  attentions  at  the  latch  of  the 
gate.  The  premises  of  the  prudence  of  life  are  not  the  hospitality  of 
it,  or  the  ripeness  and  harvest  of  it.  Beyond  the  independence  of  a 
little  sum  laid  aside  for  burial-money,  and  of  a  few  clap-boards  around 
and  shingles  overhead  on  a  lot  of  American  soil  own'd,  and  the  easy 
dollars  that  supply  the  year's  plain  clothing  and  meals,  the  melancholy 
prudence  of  the  abandonment  of  such  a  great  being  as  a  man  is,  to  the 
toss  and  pallor  of  years  of  money-making,  with  all  their  scorching  days 
and  icy  nights,  and  all  their  stifling  deceits  and  underhand  dodgings, 
or  infinitesimals  of  parlors,  or  shameless  stuffing  while  others  starve,  and 
all  the  loss  of  the  bloom  and  odor  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  flowers  and 
atmosphere,  and  of  the  sea,  and  of  the  true  taste  of  the  women  and 
men  you  pass  or  have  to  do  with  in  youth  or  middle  age,  and  the 
issuing  sickness  and  desperate  revolt  at  the  close  of  a  life  without 
elevation  or  naivety  (even  if  you  have  achiev'd  a  secure  10,000  a 
year,  or  election  to  Congress  or  the  Governorship,)  and  the  ghastly 
chatter  of  a  death  without  serenity  or  majesty,  is  the  great  fraud  upon 
modern  civilization  and  forethought,  blotching  the  surface  and  system 
which  civilization  undeniably  drafts,  and  moistening  with  tears  the 
immense  features  it  spreads  and  spreads  with  such  velocity  before  the 
reach' d  kisses  of  the  soul. 

Ever  the  right  explanation  remains  to  be  made  about  prudence. 
The  prudence  of  the  mere  wealth  and  respectability  of  the  most 
•esteem' d  life  appears  too  faint  for  the  eye  to  observe  at  all,  when  little 
and  large  alike  drop  quietly  aside  at  the  thought  of  the  prudence  suit 
able  for  immortality.  What  is  the  wisdom  that  fills  the  thinness  of  a 
year,  or  seventy  or  eighty  years  —  to  the  wisdom  spaced  out  by  ages, 
and  coming  back  at  a  certain  time  with  strong  reinforcements  and  rich 
presents,  and  the  clear  faces  of  wedding-guests  as  far  as  you  can  look, 
in  every  direction,  running  gaily  toward  you  ?  Only  the  soul  is  of 


266  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

itself — all  else  has  reference  to  what  ensues.  All  that  a  person  does 
or  thinks  is  of  consequence.  Nor  can  the  push  of  charity  or  personal 
force  ever  be  anything  else  than  the  profoundest  reason,  whether  it 
brings  argument  to  hand  or  no.  No  specification  is  necessary — to  add 
or  subtract  or  divide  is  in  vain.  Little  or  big,  learn' d  or  unlearn' d, 
white  or  black,  legal  or  illegal,  sick  or  well,  from  the  first  inspiration 
down  the  windpipe  to  the  last  expiration  out  of  it,  all  that  a  male  or 
female  does  that  is  vigorous  and  benevolent  and  clean  is  so  much  sure 
profit  to  him  or  her  in  the  unshakable  order  of  the  universe,  and  through 
the  whole  scope  of  it  forever.  The  prudence  of  the  greatest  poet, 
answers  at  last  the  craving  and  glut  of  the  soul,  puts  off  nothing,  per 
mits  no  let-up  for  its  own  case  or  any  case,  has  no  particular  sabbath 
or  judgment  day,  divides  not  the  living  from  the  dead,  or  the  righteous 
from  the  unrighteous,  is  satisfied  with  the  present,  matches  every 
thought  or  act  by  its  correlative,  and  knows  no  possible  forgiveness  or 
deputed  atonement. 

The  direct  trial  of  him  who  would  be  the  greatest  poet  is  to-day. 
If  he  does  not  flood  himself  with  the  immediate  age  as  with  vast  oceanic 
tides  —  if  he  be  not  himself  the  age  transfigur'  d,  and  if  to  him  is  not 
opened  the  eternity  which  gives  similitude  to  all  periods  and  locations 
and  processes,  and  animate  and  inanimate  forms,  and  which  is  the  bond 
of  time,  and  rises  up  from  its  inconceivable  vagueness  and  infiniteness  in 
the  swimming  shapes  of  to-day,  and  is  held  by  the  ductile  anchors  of 
life,  and  makes  the  present  spot  the  passage  from  what  was  to  what  shall 
be,  and  commits  itself  to  the  representation  of  this  wave  of  an  hour, 
and  this  one  of  the  sixty  beautiful  children  of  the  wave  — let  him 
merge  in  the  general  run,  and  wait  his  development. 

Still  the  final  test  of  poems,  or  any  character  or  work,  remains. 
The  prescient  poet  projects  himself  centuries  ahead,  and  judges  per 
former  or  performance  after  the  changes  of  time.  Does  it  live  through 
them  ?  Does  it  still  hold  on  untired  ?  Will  the  same  style,  and  the 
direction  of  genius  to  similar  points,  be  satisfactory  now  ?  Have  the 
marches  of  tens  and  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years  made  willing 
detours  to  the  right  hand  and  the  left  hand  for  his  sake?  Is  he  beloved 
long  and  long  after  he  is  buried  ?  Does  the  young  man  think  often  of 
him  ?  and  the  young  woman  think  often  of  him  ?  and  do  the  middle- 
aged  and  the  old  think  of  him  ? 

A  great  poem  is  for  ages  and  ages  in  common,  and  for  all  degrees 
and  complexions,  and  all  departments  and  sects,  and  for  a  woman  as 
much  as  a  man,  and  a  man  as  much  as  a  woman.  A  great  poem  is 
no  finish  to  a  man  or  woman,  but  rather  a  beginning.  Has  any  one 
fancied  he  could  sit  at  last  under  some  due  authority,  and  rest  satisfied 
with  explanations,  and  realize,  and  be  content  and  full  ?  To  no  such 
terminus  does  the  greatest  poet  bring  —  he  brings  neither  cessation  nor 


COLLECT  267 

shelter' d  fatness  and  ease.  The  touch  of  him,  like  Nature,  tells  in 
action.  Whom  he  takes  he  takes  with  firm  sure  grasp  into  live  regions 
previously  unattain'd —  thenceforward  is  no  rest —  they  see  the  space 
and  ineffable  sheen  that  turn  the  old  spots  and  lights  into  dead  vacuums. 

Now  there  shall  be  a  man  cohered  out  of  tumult  and  chaos the  elder 

encourages  the  younger  and  shows  him  how  —  they  two  shall  launch 
off  fearlessly  together  till  the  new  world  fits  an  orbit  for  itself,  and  looks 
unabash'd  on  the  lesser  orbits  of  the  stars,  and  sweeps  through  the 
ceaseless  rings,  and  shall  never  be  quiet  again. 

There  will  soon  be  no  more  priests.  Their  work  is  done.  A  new 
order  shall  arise,  and  they  shall  bfe  the  priests  of  man,  and  every  man 
shall  be  his  own  priest.  They  shall  find  their  inspiration  in  real  objects 
to-day,  symptoms  of  the  past  and  future.  They  shall  not  deign  to 
defend  immortality  or  God,  or  the  perfection  of  things,  or  liberty,  or 
the  exquisite  beauty  and  reality  of  the  soul.  They  shall  arise  in 
America,  and  be  responded  to  from  the  remainder  of  the  earth. 

The  English  language  befriends  the  grand  American  expression 

it  is  brawny  enough,  and  limber  and  full  enough.  On  the  tough  stock 
of  a  race  who  through  all  change  of  circumstance  was  never  without 
the  idea  of  political  liberty,  which  is  the  animus  of  all  liberty,  it  has 
attracted  the  terms  of  daintier  and  gayer  and  subtler  and  more  elegant 
tongues.  It  is  the  powerful  language  of  resistance  —  it  is  the  dialect 
of  common  sense.  It  is  the  speech  of  the  proud  and  melancholy  races, 
and  of  all  who  aspire.  It  is  the  chosen  tongue  to  express  growth,  faith, 
self-esteem,  freedom,  justice,  equality,  friendliness,  amplitude,  prudence, 
decision,  and  courage.  It  is  the  medium  that  shall  wellnigh  express 
the  inexpressible. 

No  great  literature,  nor  any  like  style  of  behavior  or  oratory,  or 
social  intercourse  or  household  arrangements,  or  public  institutions,  or 
the  treatment  by  bosses  of  employ  'd  people,  nor  executive  detail, 
or  detail  of  the  army  and  navy,  nor  spirit  of  legislation  or  courts,  or 
police  or  tuition  or  architecture,  or  songs  or  amusements,  can  long 
elude  the  jealous  and  passionate  instinct  of  American  standards. 
Whether  or  no  the  sign  appears  from  the  mouths  of  the  people,  it 
throbs  a  live  interrogation  in  every  freeman's  and  freewoman's  heart, 
after  that  which  passes  by,  or  this  built  to  remain.  Is  it  uniform  with 
my  country?  Are  its  disposals  without  ignominious  distinctions?  Is 
it  for  the  ever-growing  communes  of  brothers  and  lovers,  large,  well 
united,  proud,  beyond  the  old  models,  generous  beyond  all  models? 
Is  it  something  grown  fresh  out  of  the  fields,  or  drawn  from  the  sea 
for  use  to  me  to-day  here?  I  know  that  what  answers  for  me,  an 
American,  in  Texas,  Ohio,  Canada,  must  answer  for  any  individual 
or  nation  that  serves  for  a  part  of  my  materials.  Does  this  answer  ? 
Is  it  for  the  nursing  of  the  young  of  the  republic  ?  Does  it  solve 


268  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

readily  with  the  sweet  milk  of  the  nipples  of  the  breasts  of  the  Mother 
of  Many  Children? 

America  prepares  with  composure  and  good-will  for  the  visitors 
that  have  sent  word.  It  is  not  intellect  that  is  to  be  their  warrant 
and  welcome.  The  talented,  the  artist,  the  ingenious,  the  editor,  the 
statesman,  the  erudite,  are  not  unappreciated  —  they  fall  in  their  place 
and  do  their  work.  The  soul  of  the  nation  also  does  its  work.  It 
rejects  none,  it  permits  all.  Only  toward  the  like  of  itself  will  it 
advance  half-way.  An  individual  is  as  superb  as  a  nation  when  he 
has  the  qualities  which  make  a  superb  nation.  The  soul  of  the  largest 
and  wealthiest  and  proudest  nation  may  well  go  half-way  to  meet  that 
of  its  poets. 

PREFACE,   1872  THE   impetus    and    ideas  urging  me,  for 

To  As  a  Strong  Bird  on  Pinions  some  years  past,  to  an  utterance,  or  at- 
Free  tempt  at  utterance,  of  New  World  songs, 

Now  Thou  Mother   with    thy  •        r  T\  i.      •          i        j 

Equal  Brood,  in  permanent  J-  and  an  ePlc  of  Democracy,  having  already 
tion  had  their  publish*  d  expression,  as  well  as 

I    can  expect  to  give  it,  in  "Leaves  of 
Grass,"  the  present  and  any  future  pieces 

from  me  are  really  but  the  surplusage  forming  after  that  volume,  or 
the  wake  eddying  behind  it.  I  fulfil? d  in  that  an  imperious  con 
viction,  and  the  commands  of  my  nature  as  total  and  irresistible  as 
those  which  make  the  sea  flow,  or  the  globe  revolve.  But  of  this 
supplementary  volume,  I  confess  I  am  not  so  certain.  Having  from 
early  manhood  abandon' d  the  business  pursuits  and  applications  usual 
in  my  time  and  country,  and  obediently  yielded  myself  up  ever  since 
to  the  impetus  mention' d,  and  to  the  work  of  expressing  those  ideas, 
it  may  be  that  mere  habit  has  got  dominion  of  me,  when  there  is  no 
real  need  of  saying  anything  further.  But  what  is  life  but  an  experi 
ment  ?  and  mortality  but  an  exercise  ?  with  reference  to  results  beyond. 
And  so  shall  my  poems  be.  If  incomplete  here,  and  superfluous  there, 
rf  importe — the  earnest  trial  and  persistent  exploration  shall  at  least  be 
mine,  and  other  success  failing  shall  be  success  enough.  I  have  been 
more  anxious,  anyhow,  to  suggest  the  songs  of  vital  endeavor  and 
manly  evolution,  and  furnish  something  for  races  of  outdoor  athletes, 
than  to  make  perfect  rhymes,  or  reign  in  the  parlors.  I  ventur'd 
from  the  beginning  my  own  way,  taking  chances — and  would  keep 
on  venturing. 

I  will  therefore  not  conceal  from  any  persons,  known  or  unknown 
to  me,  who  take  an  interest  in  the  matter,  that  I  have  the  ambition  of 
devoting  yet  a  few  years  to  poetic  composition.  The  mighty  present 
age!  To  absorb  and  express  in  poetry,  anything  of  it — of  its  world 
&  America  —  cities  and  States — the  years,  the  events  of  our  Nine- 


COLLECT  269 

teenth  century — the  rapidity  of  movement  —  the  violent  contrasts, 
fluctuations  of  light  and  shade,  of  hope  and  fear  —  the  entire  revolu 
tion  made  by  science  in  the  poetic  method  —  these  great  new  under 
lying  facts  and  new  ideas  rushing  and  spreading  everywhere;  —  truly  a 
mighty  age !  As  if  in  some  colossal  drama,  acted  again  like  those  of 
old  under  the  open  sun,  the  Nations  of  our  time,  and  all  the  charac 
teristics  of  Civilization,  seem  hurrying,  stalking  across,  flitting  from 
wing  to  wing,  gathering,  closing  up,  toward  some  long-prepared, 
most  tremendous  denouement.  Not  to  conclude  the  infinite  scenas 
of  the  race's  life  and  toil  and  happiness  and  sorrow,  but  haply  that 
the  boards  be  clear' d  from  oldest,  worst  incumbrances,  accumulations, 
and  Man  resume  the  eternal  play  anew,  and  under  happier,  freer 
auspices.  To  me,  the  United  States  are  important  because  in  this 
colossal  drama  they  are  unquestionably  designated  for  the  leading 
parts,  for  many  a  century  to  come.  In  them  history  and  humanity 
seem  to  seek  to  culminate.  Our  broad  areas  are  even  now  the  busy 
theatre  of  plots,  passions,  interests,  and  suspended  problems,  compared 
to  which  the  intrigues  of  the  past  of  Europe,  the  wars  of  dynasties, 
the  scope  of  kings  and  kingdoms,  and  even  the  development  of  peoples, 
as  hitherto,  exhibit  scales  of  measurement  comparatively  narrow  and 
trivial.  And  on  these  areas  of  ours,  as  on  a  stage,  sooner  or  later, 
something  like  an  eclaircissement  of  all  the  past  civilization  of  Europe 
and  Asia  is  probably  to  be  evolved. 

The  leading  parts.  Not  to  be  acted,  emulated  here,  by  us  again, 
that  i Me  till  now  foremost  in  history — not  to  become  a  conqueror 
nation,  or  to  achieve  the  glory  of  mere  military,  or  diplomatic,  or 
commercial  superiority — but  to  become  the  grand  producing  land  of 
nobler  men  and  women — of  copious  races,  cheerful,  healthy,  tolerant, 
free  —to  become  the  most  friendly  nation,  (the  United  States  indeed) 
— the  modern  composite  nation,  form'd  from  all,  with  room  for  all, 
welcoming  all  immigrants  —  accepting  the  work  of  our  own  interior 
development,  as  the  work  fitly  filling  ages  and  ages  to  come;  —  the 
leading  nation  of  peace,  but  neither  ignorant  nor  incapable  of  being 
the  leading  nation  of  war; — not  the  man's  nation  only,  but  the 
woman's  nation  —  a  land  of  splendid  mothers,  daughters,  sisters, 
wives. 

Our  America  to-day  I  consider  in  many  respects  as  but  indeed  a 
vast  seething  mass  of  materials  y  ampler,  better,  (worse  also,)  than 
previously  known  —  eligible  to  be  used  to  carry  towards  its  crowning 
stage,  and  build  for  good,  the  great  ideal  nationality  of  the  future, 
the  nation  of  the  body  and  the  soul,* — no  limit  here  to  land,  help, 

*The  problems  of  the  achievements  of  this  crowning  stage  through  future 
first-class  National  Singers,  Orators,  Artists,  and  others  —  of  creating  in 


270  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

opportunities,  mines,  products,  demands,  supplies,  &c. ; — witb  (1 
think)  our  political  organization,  National,  State,  and  Municipal, 
permanently  establish' d,  as  far  ahead  as  we  can  calculate  —  but,  so  far, 
no  social,  literary,  religious,  or  esthetic  organizations,  consistent  with 
our  politics,  or  becoming  to  us  — which  organizations  can  only  come, 
in  time,  through  great  democratic  ideas,  religion — through  science, 
which  now,  like  a  new  sunrise,  ascending,  begins  to  illuminate  all  — 
and  through  our  own  begotten  poets  and  literatuses.  (The  moral  of 
a  late  well-written  book  on  civilization  seems  to  be  that  the  only  real 
foundation- walls  and  bases — and  also  fine  qua  non  afterward^  of  true 
and  full  civilization,  is  the  eligibility  and  certainty  of  boundless  prod 
ucts  for  feeding,  clothing,  sheltering  everybody — perennial  fountains 
of  physical  and  domestic  comfort,  with  intercommunication,  and 
with  civil  and  ecclesiastical  freedom  —  and  that  then  the  esthetic 
and  mental  business  will  take  care  of  itself.  Well,  the  United  States 
have  establish' d  this  basis,  and  upon  scales  of  extent,  variety,  vitality, 
and  continuity,  rivaling  those  of  Nature ;  and  have  now  to  proceed  to 
build  an  edifice  upon  it.  I  say  this  edifice  is  only  to  be  fitly  built  by 
new  literatures,  especially  the  poetic.  I  say  a  modern  image-making 
creation  is  indispensable  to  fuse  and  express  the  modern  political  and 
scientific  creations — and  then  the  trinity  will  be  complete.) 

When  I  commenced,  years  ago,  elaborating  the  plan  of  my  poems, 
and  continued  turning  over  that  plan,  and  shifting  it  in  my  mind 
through  many  years,  (from  the  age  of  twenty-eight  to  thirty-five,) 
experimenting  much,  and  writing  and  abandoning  much,  one  deep 
purpose  underlay  the  others,  and  has  underlain  it  and  its  execution 
ever  since — and  that  has  been  the  religious  purpose.  Amid  many 
changes,  and  a  formulation  taking  far  different  shape  from  what  I  at 
first  supposed,  this  basic  purpose  has  never  been  departed  from  in  the 
composition  of  my  verses.  Not  of  course  to  exhibit  itself  in  the  old 
ways,  as  in  writing  hymns  or  psalms  with  an  eye  to  the  church-pew, 
or  to  express  conventional  pietism,  or  the  sickly  yearnings  of  devotees, 
but  in  new  ways,  and  aiming  at  the  widest  sub-bases  and  inclusions  of 
humanity,  and  tallying  the  fresh  air  of  sea  and  land.  I  will  see, 
(said  I  to  myself,)  whether  there  is  not,  for  my  purposes  as  poet,  a 
religion,  and  a  sound  religious  germenancy  in  the  average  human  race, 

literature  an  imaginative  New  World,  the  correspondent  and  counterpart  of 
the  current  Scientific  and  Political  New  Worlds, — and  the  perhaps  distant, 
but  still  delightful  prospect,  (for  our  children,  if  not  in  our  own  day,)  of 
delivering  America,  and,  indeed,  all  Christian  lands  everywhere,  from  the 
thin  moribund  and  watery,  but  appallingly  extensive  nuisance  of  conven 
tional  poetry  —  by  putting  something  really  alive  and  substantial  in  its 
place  —  I  have  undertaken  to  grapple  with,  and  argue,  in  the  preceding 
" Democratic  Vistas." 


COLLECT  271 

at  least  in  their  modern  development  in  the  United  States,  and  in  the 
hardy  common  fiber  and  native  yearnings  and  elements,  deeper  and 
larger,  and  affording  more  profitable  returns,  than  all  mere  sects  or 
churches  —  as  boundless,  joyous,  and  vital  as  Nature  itself — a  ger- 
menancy  that  has  too  long  been  unencouraged,  unsung,  almost  un 
known.  With  science,  the  old  theology  of  the  East,  long  in  its 
dotage,  begins  evidently  to  die  and  disappear.  But  (to  my  mind) 
science  —  and  may-be  such  will  prove  its  principal  service — as  evi 
dently  prepares  the  way  for  One  indescribably  grander — Time's 
young  but  perfect  offspring — the  new  theology — heir  of  the  West- 
lusty  and  loving,  and  wondrous  beautiful.  For  America,  and  for  to 
day,  just  the  same  as  any  day,  the  supreme  and  final  science  is  the 
science  of  God  —  what  we  call  science  being  only  its  minister — as 
Democracy  is,  or  shall  be  also.  And  a  poet  of  America  (I  said) 
must  fill  himself  with  such  thoughts,  and  chant  his  best  out  of  them. 
And  as  those  were  the  convictions  and  aims,  for  good  or  bad,  of 
"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  they  are  no  less  the  intention  of  this  volume. 
As  there  can  be,  in  my  opinion,  no  sane  and  complete  personality, 
nor  any  grand  and  electric  nationality,  without  the  stock  element  of 
religion  imbuing  all  the  other  elements,  (like  heat  in  chemistry, 
invisible  itself,  but  the  life  of  all  visible  life,)  so  there  can  be  no 
poetry  worthy  the  name  without  that  element  behind  all.  The 
time  has  certainly  come  to  begin  to  discharge  the  idea  of  religion,  in 
the  United  States,  from  mere  ecclesiasticism,  and  from  Sundays  and 
churches  and  church-going,  and  assign  it  to  that  general  position, 
chiefest,  most  indispensable,  most  exhilarating,  to  which  the  others 
are  to  be  adjusted,  inside  of  all  human  character,  and  education,  and 
affairs.  The  people,  especially  the  young  men  and  women  of 
America,  must  begin  to  learn  that  religion,  (like  poetry,)  is  some 
thing  far,  far  different  from  what  they  supposed.  It  is,  indeed,  too 
important  to  ..<  <.  power  and  perpetuity  of  the  New  World  to  be 
consign' d  any  longer  to  the  churches,  old  or  new,  Catholic  or  Prot 
estant —  Saint  this,  or  Saint  that.  It  must  be  consign'd  henceforth 
to  democracy  en  masse,  and  to  literature.  It  must  enter  into  the 
poems  of  the  nation.  It  must  make  the  nation. 

The  Four  Years'  War  is  over  —  and  in  the  peaceful,  strong, 
exciting,  fresh  occasions  of  to-day,  and  of  the  future,  that  strange, 
sad  war  is  hurrying  even  now  to  be  forgotten.  The  camp,  the 
drill,  the  lines  of  sentries,  the  prisons,  the  hospitals  —  (ah !  the 
hospitals!) — all  have  passed  away  —  all  seem  now  like  a  dream. 
A  new  race,  a  young  and  lusty  generation,  already  sweeps  in  with 
oceanic  currents,  obliterating  the  war,  and  all  its  scars,  its  mounded 
graves,  and  all  its  reminiscences  of  hatred,  conflict,  death.  So  let 
it  be  obliterated.  I  say  the  life  of  the  present  and  the  future  makes 
19 


272  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

undeniable  demands  upon  us  each  and  all,  south,  north,  east,  west. 
To  help  put  the  United  States  (even  if  only  in  imagination)  hand 
in  hand,  in  one  unbroken  circle  in  a  chant  —  to  rouse  them  to  the 
unprecedented  grandeur  of  the  part  they  are  to  play,  and  are  even 
now  playing  —  to  the  thought  of  their  great  future,  and  the  attitude 
conform*  d  to  it  —  especially  their  great  esthetic,  moral,  scientific 
future,  (of  which  their  vulgar  material  and  political  present  is  but 
as  the  preparatory  tuning  of  instruments  by  an  orchestra,)  these,  as 
hitherto,  are  still,  for  me,  among  my  hopes,  ambitions. 

"Leaves  of  Grass,"  already  published,  is,  in  its  intentions,  the 
song  of  a  great  composite  democratic  individual,  male  or  female. 
And  following  on  and  amplifying  the  same  purpose,  I  suppose  I  have 
in  my  mind  to  run  through  the  chants  of  this  volume,  (if  ever  com 
pleted,)  the  thread-voice,  more  or  less  audible,  of  an  aggregated, 
inseparable,  unprecedented,  vast,  composite,  electric  democratic 
nationality. 

Purposing,  then,  to  still  fill  out,  from  time  to  time  through  years 
to  come,  the  following  volume,  (unless  prevented,)  I  conclude  this 
preface  to  the  first  instalment  of  it,  pencil'd  in  the  open  air,  on  my 
fifty-third  birth-day,  by  wafting  to  you,  dear  reader,  whoever  you 
are,  (from  amid  the  fresh  scent  of  the  grass,  the  pleasant  coolness  of 
the  forenoon  breeze,  the  lights  and  shades  of  tree-boughs  silently  dap 
pling  and  playing  around  me,  and  the  notes  of  the  cat-bird  for  under 
tone  and  accompaniment,)  my  true  good-will  and  love.  W.  W. 

Washington,  D.  C.,  May  31,  1872. 

PREFACE,  1876  AT  the  eleventh  hour,  under  grave  illness, 

To  the  two-volume  Centennial  I  gather  up  the  pieces  of  prose  and  poetry 
Edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass  and  left  oyer  since  publishing,  a  while  since, 
Two  Rivulets  c  r  .  i  „  T  r 

my  first    and    mam  volume,  "Leaves   of 

Grass ' '  —  pieces,  here,  some  new,  some 

old  —  nearly  all  of  them  (sombre  as  many  are,  making  this  almost 
death's  book)  composed  in  by-gone  atmospheres  of  perfect  health  — 
and  preceded  by  the  freshest  collection,  the  little  ''Two  Rivulets," 
now  send  them  out,  embodied  in  the  present  melange,  partly  as  my 
contribution  and  outpouring  to  celebrate,  in  some  sort,  the  feature  of 
the  time,  the  first  centennial  of  our  New  World  nationality  —  and 
then  as  chyle  and  nutriment  to  that  moral,  indissoluble  union,  equally 
representing  all,  and  the  mother  of  many  coming  centennials. 

And  e'en  for  flush  and  proof  of  our  America  —  for  reminder,  just 
as  much,  or  more,  in  moods  of  towering  pride  and  joy,  I  keep  my 
special  chants  of  death  and  immortality*  to  stamp  the  coloring-finish 

*  PASSAGE  TO  INDIA. — As  in  some  ancient  legend-play,  to  close  the 
plot  and  the  hero's  career,  there  is  a  farewell  gathering  on  ship's  deck 


COLLECT  273 

of  all,  present  and  past.  For  terminus  and  temperer  to  all,  they 
were  originally  written ;  and  that  shall  be  their  office  at  the  last. 

For  some  reason  —  not  explainable  or  definite  to  my  own  mind, 
yet  secretly  pleasing  and  satisfactory  to  it — I  have  not  hesitated  to 
embody  in,  and  run  through  the  volume,  two  altogether  distinct  veins, 

or  strata politics  for  one,  and  for  the  other,  the  pensive  thought  of 

immortality.      Thus,  too,  the  prose  and  poetic,  the  dual  forms  of  the 

and  on  shore,  a  loosing  of  hawsers  and  ties,  a  spreading  of  sails  to  the  wind 

a  starting  out  on  unknown  seas,  to  fetch  up  no  one  knows  whither  —  to 

return  no  more  —  and  the  curtain  falls,  and  there  is  the  end  of  it  —  so  I 
have  reserved  that  poem,  with  its  cluster,  to  finish  and  explain  much  that, 
without  them,  would  not  be  explained,  and  to  take  leave,  and  escape  for 
good,  from  all  that  has  preceded  them.  (Then  probably  "Passage  to 
India,"  and  its  cluster,  are  but  freer  vent  and  fuller  expression  to  what, 
from  the  first,  and  so  on  throughout,  more  or  less  lurks  in  my  writings, 
underneath  every  page,  every  line,  everywhere.) 

I  am  not  sure  but  the  last  inclosing  sublimation  of  race  or  poem  is, 
what  it  thinks  of  death.  After  the  rest  has  been  comprehended  and  said, 
even  the  grandest  —  after  those  contributions  to  mightiest  nationality,  or 
to  sweetest  song,  or  to  the  best  personalism,  male  or  female,  have  been 
glean' d  from  the  rich  and  varied  themes  of  tangible  life,  and  have  been 
fully  accepted  and  sung,  and  the  pervading  fact  of  visible  existence,  with 
the  duty  it  devolves,  is  rounded  and  apparently  completed,  it  still  remains 
to  be  really  completed  by  suffusing  through  the  whole  and  several,  that 
other  pervading  invisible  fact,  so  large  a  part,  (is  it  not  the  largest  part  ?) 
of  life  here,  combining  the  rest,  and  furnishing,  for  person  or  State,  the 
only  permanent  and  unitary  meaning  to  all,  even  the  meanest  life,  con 
sistently  with  the  dignity  of  the  universe,  in  Time.  As  from  the  eligibility 
to  this  thought,  and  the  cheerful  conquest  of  this  fact,  flash  forth  the  first 
distinctive  proofs  of  the  soul,  so  to  me,  (extending  it  only  a  little  further,) 
the  ultimate  Democratic  purports,  the  ethereal  and  spiritual  ones,  are  to 
concentrate  here,  and  as  fixed  stars,  radiate  hence.  For,  in  my  opinion,  it 
is  no  less  than  this  idea  of  immortality,  above  all  other  ideas,  that  is  to  enter 
into,  and  vivify,  and  give  crowning  religious  stamp,  to  democracy  in  the 
New  World. 

It  was  originally  my  intention,  after  chanting  in  "Leaves  of  Grass"  the 
songs  of  the  body  and  existence,  to  then  compose  a  further,  equally  needed 
volume,  based  on  those  convictions  of  perpetuity  and  conservation  which, 
enveloping  all  precedents,  make  the  unseen  soul  govern  absolutely  at  last. 
I  meant,  while  in  a  sort  continuing  the  theme  of  my  first  chants,  to  shift 
the  slides,  and  exhibit  the  problem  and  paradox  of  the  same  ardent  and  fully 
appointed  personality  entering  the  sphere  of  the  resistless  gravitation  of  spir 
itual  law,  and  with  cheerful  face  estimating  death,  not  at  all  as  the  cessa 
tion,  but  as  somehow  what  I  feel  it  must  be,  the  entrance  upon  by  far  the 
greatest  part  of  existence,  and  something  that  life  is  at  least  as  much  for,  as 
it  is  for  itself.  But  the  full  construction  of  such  a  work  is  beyond  my 
powers,  and  must  remain  for  some  bard  in  the  future.  The  physical  and 


274  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

present  book.  The  volume,  therefore,  after  its  minor  episodes,  prob 
ably  divides  into  these  two,  at  first  sight  far  diverse,  veins  of  topic 
and  treatment.  Three  points,  in  especial,  have  become  very  dear  to 
me,  and  all  through  I  seek  to  make  them  again  and  again,  in  many 
forms  and  repetitions,  as  will  be  seen:  I.  That  the  true  growth- 
characteristics  of  the  democracy  of  the  New  World  are  henceforth  to 
radiate  in  superior  literary,  artistic  and  religious  expressions,  far  more 
than  in  its  republican  forms,  universal  suffrage,  and  frequent  elections^ 

the  sensuous,  in  themselves  or  in  their  immediate  continuations,  retain  holds 
upon  me  which  I  think  are  never  entirely  released  ;  and  those  holds  I  have 
not  only  not  denied,  but  hardly  wish'd  to  weaken. 

Meanwhile,  not  entirely  to  give  the  go-by  to  my  original  plan,  and  far 
more  to  avoid  a  marked  hiatus  in  it,  than  to  entirely  fulfil  it,  I  end  my 
books  with  thoughts,  or  radiations  from  thoughts,  on  death,  immortality, 
and  a  free  entrance  into  the  spiritual  world.  In  those  thoughts,  in  a  sort, 
I  make  the  first  steps  or  studies  toward  the  mighty  theme,  from  the  point  of 
view  necessitated  by  my  foregoing  poems,  and  by  modern  science.  In  them 
I  also  seek  to  set  the  key-stone  to  my  democracy's  enduring  arch.  I  recol- 
late  them  now,  for  the  press,  in  order  to  partially  occupy  and  offset  days  of 
strange  sickness,  and  the  heaviest  affliction  and  bereavement  of  my  life  ; 
and  I  fondly  please  myself  with  the  notion  of  leaving  that  cluster  to  you, 

0  unknown  reader  of  the  future,  as  "  something  to  remember  me  by," 
more  especially  than  all  else.      Written  in  former  days  of  perfect  health, 
little  did  I  think  the  pieces  had  the  purport  that  now,  under  present  circum 
stances,  opens  to  me. 

[As  I  write  these  lines,  May  31,  1875,  it  *s  again  early  summer, — 
again  my  birth-day  —  now  my  fifty-sixth.  Amid  the  outside  beauty  and 
freshness,  the  sunlight  and  verdure  of  the  delightful  season,  O  how  different 
the  moral  atmosphere  amid  which  I  now  revise  this  Volume,  from  the 
jocund  influence  surrounding  the  growth  and  advent  of  "Leaves  of  Grass.'1 

1  occupy  myself,  arranging  these  pages  for  publication,  still  envelopt  in 
thoughts  of  the  death  two  years  since  of  my  dear  Mother,  the  most  perfect 
and   magnetic  character,  the  rarest  combination   of  practical,   moral  and 
spiritual,  and  the  least  selfish,  of  all  and  any  I  have  ever  known  —  and  by 
me  O  so  much  the  most  deeply  loved  —  and  also  under  the  physical  afflic 
tion  of  a  tedious  attack  of  paralysis,  obstinately  lingering  and  keeping  its 
hold  upon  me,  and  quite  suspending  all  bodily  activity  and  comfort.] 

Under  these  influences,  therefore,  I  still  feel  to  keep  "Passage  to  India" 
for  last  words  even  to  this  centennial  dithyramb.  Not  as,  in  antiquity,  at 
highest  festival  of  Egypt,  the  noisome  skeleton  of  death  was  sent  on  exhibi 
tion  to  the  revelers,  for  zest  and  shadow  to  the  occasion's  joy  and  light  — 
but  as  the  marble  statue  of  the  normal  Greeks  at  Elis,  suggesting  death  in 
the  form  of  a  beautiful  and  perfect  young  man,  with  closed  eyes,  leaning 
on  an  inverted  torch  —  emblem  of  rest  and  aspiration  after  action  —  of 
crown  and  point  which  all  lives  and  poems  should  steadily  have  reference 
to,  namely,  the  justified  and  noble  termination  of  our  identity,  this  grade 
of  it,  and  outlet-preparation  to  another  grade. 


COLLECT  275 

(though  these  are  unspeakably  important.)  2.  That  the  vital  polit 
ical  mission  of  the  United  States  is,  to  practically  solve  and  settle  the 
problem  of  two  sets  of  rights  —  the  fusion,  thorough  compatibility 
and  junction  of  individual  State  prerogatives,  with  the  indispensable 
necessity  of  centrality  and  Oneness  —  the  national  identity  power— 
the  sovereign  Union,  relentless,  permanently  comprising  all,  and  over 
all,  and  in  that  never  yielding  an  inch:  then  3d.  Do  we  not,  amid  a 
general  malaria  of  fogs  and  vapors,  our  day,  unmistakably  see  two 
pillars  of  promise,  with  grandest,  indestructible  indications — one, 
that  the  morbid  facts  of  American  politics  and  society  everywhere  are 
but  passing  incidents  and  flanges  of  our  unbounded  impetus  of  growth? 
weeds,  annuals,  of  the  rank,  rich  soil — not  central,  enduring,  perennial 
things  ?  The  other,  that  all  the  hitherto  experience  of  the  States, 
their  first  century,  has  been  but  preparation,  adolescence  —  and  that 
this  Union  is  only  now  and  henceforth,  (/.  e.  since  the  secession  war,) 
to  enter  on  its  full  democratic  career  ? 

Of  the  whole,  poems  and  prose,  (not  attending  at  all  to  chronolog 
ical  order,  and  with  original  dates  and  passing  allusions  in  the  heat 
and  impression  of  the  hour,  left  shuffled  in,  and  undisturb'd,)  the  chants 
of  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  my  former  volume,  yet  serve  as  the  indispen 
sable  deep  soil,  or  basis,  out  of  which,  and  out  of  which  only,  could 
come  the  roots  and  stems  more  definitely  indicated  by  these  later 
pages.  (While  that  volume  radiates  physiology  alone,  the  present  one, 
though  of  the  like  origin  in  the  main,  more  palpably  doubtless  shows 
the  pathology  which  was  pretty  sure  to  come  in  time  from  the  other.) 

In  that  former  and  main  volume,  composed  in  the  flush  of  my 
health  and  strength,  from  the  age  of  30  to  50  years,  I  dwelt  on  birth 
and  life,  clothing  my  ideas  in  pictures,  days,  transactions  of  my  time, 
to  give  them  positive  place,  identity  —  saturating  them  with  that 
vehemence  of  pride  and  audacity  of  freedom  necessary  to  loosen  the 
mind  of  still-to-be-form' d  America  from  the  accumulated  folds,  the 
superstitions,  and  all  the  long,  tenacious  and  stifling  anti-democratic 
authorities  of  the  Asiatic  and  European  past  —  my  enclosing  purport 
being  to  express,  above  all  artificial  regulation  and  aid,  the  eternal 
bodily  composite,  cumulative,  natural  character  of  one's  self.* 

*  Namely,  a  character,  making  most  of  common  and  normal  elements, 
to  the  superstructure  of  which  not  only  the  precious  accumulations  of  the 
learning  and  experiences  of  the  Old  World,  and  the  settled  social  and 
municipal  necessities  and  current  requirements,  so  long  a-building,  shall 
still  faithfully  contribute,  but  which  at  its  foundations  and  carried  up 
thence,  and  receiving  its  impetus  from  the  democratic  spirit,  and  accept 
ing  its  gauge  in  all  departments  from  the  democratic  formulas,  shall  again 
directly  be  vitalized  by  the  perennial  influences  of  Nature  at  first  hand,  and 
the  old  heroic  stamina  of  Nature,  the  strong  air  of  prairie  and  mountain,  the 


276  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Estimating  the  American  Union  as  so  far,  and  for  some  time  to 
come,  in  its  yet  formative  condition,  I  bequeath  poems  and  essays  as 
nutriment  and  influences  to  help  truly  assimilate  and  harden,  and 

dash  of  the  briny  sea,  the  primary  antiseptics  —  of  the  passions,  in  all  their 
fullest  heat  and  potency,  of  courage,  rankness,  amativeness,  and  of  immense 
pride.  Not  to  lose  at  all,  therefore,  the  benefits  of  artificial  progress  and 
civilization,  but  to  re-occupy  for  Western  tenancy  the  oldest  though  ever- 
fresh  fields,  and  reap  from  them  the  savage  and  sane  nourishment  indispen 
sable  to  a  hardy  nation,  and  the  absence  of  which,  threatening  to  become 
worse  and  worse,  is  the  most  serious  lack  and  defect  to-day  of  our  New 
World  literature. 

Not  but  what  the  brawn  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  is,  I  hope,  thoroughly 
spiritualized  everywhere,  for  final  estimate,  but,  from  the  very  subjects,  the 
direct  effect  is  a  sense  of  the  life,  as  it  should  be,  of  flesh  and  blood,  and 
physical  urge,  and  animalism.  While  there  are  other  themes,  and  plenty 
of  abstract  thoughts  and  poems  in  the  volume  —  while  I  have  put  in  it  pass 
ing  and  rapid  but  actual  glimpses  of  the  great  struggle  between  the  nation 
and  the  slave-power,  (1861— '65,)  as  the  fierce  and  bloody  panorama  of  that 
contest  unroll'  d  itself :  while  the  whole  book,  indeed,  revolves  around  that 
four  years'  war,  which,  as  I  was  in  the  midst  of  it,  becomes,  in  "  Drum- 
Taps,"  pivotal  to  the  rest  entire  —  and  here  and  there,  before  and  after 
ward,  not  a  few  episodes  and  speculations  —  that  —  namely,  to  make  a 
type-portrait  for  living,  active,  worldly,  healthy  personality,  objective  as 
well  as  subjective,  joyful  and  potent,  and  modern  and  free,  distinctively  for 
the  use  of  the  United  States,  male  and  female,  through  the  long  future  — • 
has  been,  I  say,  my  general  object.  (Probably,  indeed,  the  whole  of  these 
varied  songs,  and  all  my  writings,  both  volumes,  only  ring  changes  in  some 
sort,  on  the  ejaculation,  How  vast,  how  eligible,  how  joyful,  how  real,  is  a 
human  being,  himself  or  herself.) 

Though  from  no  definite  plan  at  the  time,  I  see  now  that  I  have  uncon 
sciously  sought,  by  indirections  at  least  as  much  as  directions,  to  express 
the  whirls  and  rapid  growth  and  intensity  of  the  United  States,  the  prevail 
ing  tendency  and  events  of  the  Nineteenth  century,  and  largely  the  spirit  of 
the  whole  current  world,  my  time  $  for  I  feel  that  I  have  partaken  of  that 
spirit,  as  I  have  been  deeply  interested  in  all  those  events,  the  closing  of 
long-stretch' d  eras  and  ages,  and,  illustrated  in  the  history  of  the  United 
States,  the  opening  of  larger  ones.  (The  death  of  President  Lincoln,  for 
instance,  fitly,  historically  closes,  in  the  civilization  of  feudalism,  many  old 
influences  —  drops  on  them,  suddenly,  a  vast,  gloomy,  as  it  were,  separat 
ing  curtain.) 

Since  I  have  been  ill,  (1873— '74— '75,)  mostly  without  serious  pain,  and 
with  plenty  of  time  and  fre^ent  inclination  to  judge  my  poems,  (never 
composed  with  eye  on  the  book-market,  nor  for  fame,  nor  for  any  pecu 
niary  profit,)  I  have  felt  temporary  depression  more  than  once,  for  fear  that 
in  "Leaves  of  Grass"  the  moral  parts  were  not  sufficiently  pronounc'd. 
But  in  my  clearest  and  calmest  moods  I  have  realized  that  as  those 
"Leaves,"  all  and  several,  surely  prepare  the  way  for,  and  necessitate 


COLLECT  277 

especially  to  furnish  something  toward  what  the  States  most  need  of 
all,  and  which  seems  to  me  yet  quite  unsupplied  in  literature,  namely, 
to  show  them,  or  begin  to  show  them,  themselves  distinctively,  and 

morals,  and  are  adjusted  to  them,  just  the  same  as  Nature  does  and  is,  they 
are  what,  consistently  with  my  plan,  they  must  and  probably  should  be. 
(In  a  certain  sense,  while  the  Moral  is  the  purport  and  last  intelligence  of 
all  Nature,  there  is  absolutely  nothing  of  the  moral  in  the  works,  or  laws, 
or  shows  of  Nature.  Those  only  lead  inevitably  to  it  —  begin  and  neces- 

Then  I  meant  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  as  publish' d,  to  be  the  Poem  of 
average  Identity,  (of yours,  whoever  you  are,  now  reading  these  lines. )  A 
man  is  not  greatest  as  victor  in  war,  nor  inventor  or  explorer,  nor  even  in 
science,  or  in  his  intellectual  or  artistic  capacity,  or  exemplar  in  some  vast 
benevolence.  To  the  highest  democratic  view,  man  is  most  acceptable 
in  living  well  the  practical  life  and  lot  which  happens  to  him  as  ordinary 
farmer,  sea-farer,  mechanic,  clerk,  laborer,  or  driver  —  upon  and  from 
which  position  as  a  central  basis  or  pedestal,  while  performing  its  labors, 
and  his  duties  as  citizen,  son,  husband,  father  and  employ' d  person,  he 
preserves  his  physique,  ascends,  developing,  radiating  himself  in  other  re 
gions and  especially  where  and  when,  (greatest  of  all,  and  nobler  than 

the  proudest  mere  genius  or  magnate  in  any  field,)  he  fully  realizes  the  con 
science,  the  spiritual,  the  divine  faculty,  cultivated  well,  exemplified  in  a! 
his  deeds  and  words,  through  life,  uncompromising  to  the  end  —  a  flight 
loftier  than  any  of  Homer's  or  Shakspere's  —  broader  than  alv  poems  and 

bibles namely,  Nature's  own,  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  Yourself,  your  own 

Identity,  body  and  soul.  (All  serves,  helps  — but  in  the  centre  of  all,  ab 
sorbing  all,  giving,  for  your  purpose,  the  only  meaning  and  vitality  to  all, 
master  or  mistress  of  all,  under  the  law,  stands  Yourself.)  To  sing  the 
Song  of  that  law  of  average  Identity,  and  of  Yourself,  consistently  with  the 
divine  law  of  the  universal,  is  a  main  intention  of  those  "Leaves." 

Something  more  may  be  added-— for,  while  I  am  about  it,  I  would 
make  a  full  confession.  I  also  sent  out  "Leaves  of  Grass"  to  arouse 
and  set  flowing  in  men's  and  women's  hearts,  young  and  old,  endless 
streams  of  living,  pulsating  love  and  friendship,  directly  from  them  to  my 
self,  now  and  ever.  To  this  terrible,  irrepressible  yearning,  (surely  more 
or  less  down  underneath  in  most  human  souls)  —  this  never-satisfied  appe 
tite  for  sympathy,  and  this  boundless  offering  of  sympathy  —  this  universal 
democratic  comradeship  —  this  old,  eternal,  yet  ever-new  interchange  of 
adhesiveness,  so  fitly  emblematic  of  America  — I  have  given  in  that  book, 
undisguisedly,  declaredly,  the  openest  expression.  Besides,  important  as 
they  are  in  my  purpose  as  emotional  expressions  for  humanity,  the  special 
meaning  of  the  "Calamus"  cluster  of  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  (and  more 
or  less  running  through  the  book,  and  cropping  out  in  "Drum -Taps,") 
mainly  resides  in  its  political  significance.  In  my  opinion,  it  is  by  a 
fervent,  accepted  development  of  comradeship,  the  beautiful  and  sane  af 
fection  of  man  for  man,  latent  in  all  the  young  fellows,  north  and  south, 
east  and  west  it  is  by  this,  I  say,  and  by  what  goes  directly  and  indi- 


278  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

what  they  are  for.  For  though  perhaps  the  main  points  of  all  ages 
and  nations  are  points  of  resemblance,  and,  even  while  granting  evolu 
tion,  are  substantially  the  same,  there  are  some  vital  things  in  which 
this  Republic,  as  to  its  individualities,  and  as  a  compacted  Nation,  is 
to  specially  stand  forth,  and  culminate  modern  humanity.  And  these 
are  the  very  things  it  least  morally  and  mentally  knows  —  (though, 
curiously  enough,  it  is  at  the  same  time  faithfully  acting  upon  them.) 

I  count  with  such  absolute  certainty  on  the  great  future  of  the 
United  States  —  different  from,  though  founded  on,  the  past  —  that 
I  have  always  invoked  that  future,  and  surrounded  myself  with  it, 
before  or  while  singing  my  songs.  (As  ever,  all  tends  to  followings 
—  America,  too,  is  a  prophecy.  What,  even  of  the  best  and  most 
successful,  would  be  justified  by  itself  alone  ?  by  the  present,  or  the 
material  ostent  alone  ?  Of  men  or  States,  few  realize  how  much  they 
live  in  the  future.  That,  rising  like  pinnacles,  gives  its  main  signifi 
cance  to  all  You  and  I  are  doing  to-day.  Without  it,  there  were 
little  meaning  in  lands  or  poems  —  little  purport  in  human  lives.  All 
ages,  all  Nations  and  States,  have  been  such  prophecies.  But  where 
any  former  ones  with  prophecy  so  broad,  so  clear,  as  our  times,  our 
lands  —  as  those  of  the  West  ?) 

Without  being  a  scientist,  I  have  thoroughly  adopted  the  conclusions 
of  the  great  savans  and  experimentalists  of  our  time,  and  of  the  last 
hundred  years,  and  they  have  interiorly  tinged  the  chyle  of  all  my 
verse,  for  purposes  beyond.  Following  the  modern  spirit,  the  real 
poems  of  the  present,  ever  solidifying  and  expanding  into  the  future, 
must  vocalize  the  vastness  and  splendor  and  reality  with  which  scien- 
tism  has  invested  man  and  the  universe,  (all  that  is  called  creation,) 
and  must  henceforth  launch  humanity  into  new  orbits,  consonant  with 
that  vastness,  splendor,  and  reality,  (unknown  to  the  old  poems,)  like 
new  systems  of  orbs,  balanced  upon  themselves,  revolving  in  limitless 
space,  more  subtle  than  the  stars.  Poetry,  so  largely  hitherto  and  even 
at  present  wedded  to  children's  tales,  and  to  mere  amorousness,  up 
holstery  and  superficial  rhyme,  will  have  to  accept,  and,  while  not 
denying  the  past,  nor  the  themes  of  the  past,  will  be  revivified  by  this 
tremendous  innovation,  the  kosmic  spirit,  which  must  henceforth,  in 

rectly  along  with  it,  that  the  United  States  of  the  future,  (I  cannot  too 
often  repeat,)  are  to  be  most  effectually  welded  together,  intercalated,  an 
neal' d  into  a  living  union. 

Then,  for  enclosing  clue  of  all,  it  is  imperatively  and  ever  to  be  borne  in 
mind  that  "Leaves  of  Grass"  entire  is  not  to  be  construed  as  an  intellect 
ual  or  scholastic  effort  or  poem  mainly,  but  more  as  a  radical  utterance 
out  of  the  Emotions  and  the  Physique  —  an  utterance  adjusted  to,  perhaps 
born  of,  Democracy  and  the  Modern  —  in  its  very  nature  regardless  of  the 
old  conventions,  and,  under  the  great  laws,  following  only  its  own  impulses. 


COLLECT  279 

my  opinion,  be  the  background  and  underlying  impetus,  more  or  less 
visible,  of  all  first-class  songs. 

Only,  (for  me,  at  any  rate,  in  all  my  prose  and  poetry,)  joyfully 
accepting  modern  science,  and  loyally  following  it  without  the  slightest 
hesitation,  there  remains  ever  recognized  still  a  higher  flight,  a  higher 
fact,  the  eternal  soul  of  man,  (of  all  else  too,)  the  spiritual,  the 
religious  —  which  it  is  to  be  the  greatest  office  of  scientism,  in  my 
opinion,  and  of  future  poetry  also,  to  free  from  fables,  crudities  and 
superstitions,  and  launch  forth  in  renew' d  faith  and  scope  a  hundred 
fold.  To  me,  the  worlds  of  religiousness,  of  the  conception  of  the 
divine,  and  of  the  ideal,  though  mainly  latent,  are  just  as  absolute  in 
humanity  and  the  universe  as  the  world  of  chemistry,  or  anything  in 
the  objective  worlds.  To  me 

The  prophet  and  the  bard, 

Shall  yet  maintain  themselves  —  in  higher  circles  yet, 
Shall  mediate  to  the  modern,  to  democracy  —  interpret  yet  to  them, 

God  and  eidolons. 

To  me,  the  crown  of  savantism  is  to  be,  that  it  surely  opens  the 
way  for  a  more  splendid  theology,  and  for  ampler  and  diviner  songs. 
No  year,  nor  even  century,  will  settle  this.  There  is  a  phase  of  the 
real,  lurking  behind  the  real,  which  it  is  all  for.  There  is  also  in 
the  intellect  of  man,  in  time,  far  in  prospective  recesses,  a  judgment, 
a  last  appellate  court,  which  will  settle  it. 

In  certain  parts  in  these  flights,  or  attempting  to  depict  or  suggest 
them,  I  have  not  been  afraid  of  the  charge  of  obscurity,  in  either  of 
my  two  volumes — because  human  thought,  poetry  or  melody,  must 
leave  dim  escapes  and  outlets — must  possess  a  certain  fluid,  aerial 
character,  akin  to  space  itself,  obscure  to  those  of  little  or  no  imagina 
tion,  but  indispensable  to  the  highest  purposes.  Poetic  style,  when 
addressed  to  the  soul,  is  less  definite  form,  outline,  sculpture,  and 
becomes  vista,  music,  half-tints,  and  even  less  than  half-tints.  True, 
it  may  be  architecture  ;  but  again  it  may  be  the  forest  wild-wood,  or 
the  best  effect  thereof,  at  twilight,  the  waving  oaks  and  cedars  in  the 
wind,  and  the  impalpable  odor. 

Finally,  as  I  have  lived  in  fresh  lands,  inchoate,  and  in  a  revolu 
tionary  age,  future-founding,  I  have  felt  to  identify  the  points  of  that 
age,  these  lands,  in  my  recitatives,  altogether  in  my  own  way. 
Thus  my  form  has  strictly  grown  from  my  purports  and  facts,  and  is 
the  analogy  of  them.  Within  my  time  the  United  States  have  emerged 
from  nebulous  vagueness  and  suspense,  to  full  orbic,  (though  varied,) 
decision  —  have  done  the  deeds  and  achiev'd  the  triumphs  of  half  a 
score  of  centuries  —  and  are  henceforth  to  enter  upon  their  real  history 
—  the  way  being  now,  (/.  e.  since  the  result  of  the  secession  war,) 


280  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

clear' d  of  death-threatening  impedimenta,  and  the  free  areas  around 
and  ahead  of  us  assured  and  certain,  which  were  not  so  before  —  (the 
past  century  being  but  preparations,  trial  voyages  and  experiments  of 
the  ship,  before  her  starting  out  upon  deep  water.)  , 

In  estimating  my  volumes,  the  world's  current  times  and  deeds, 
and  their  spirit,  must  be  first  profoundly  estimated.  Out  of  the  hun 
dred  years  just  ending,  (1776-1876,)  with  their  genesis  of  inevitable 
wilful  events,  and  new  experiments  and  introductions,  and  many 
unprecedented  things  of  war  and  peace,  (to  be  realized  better,  per 
haps  only  realized,  at  the  remove  of  a  century  hence ;)  out  of  that 
stretch  of  time,  and  especially  out  of  the  immediately  preceding 
twenty-five  years,  (i85o-'75,)  with  all  their  rapid  changes,  innova 
tions,  and  audacious  movements — and  bearing  their  own  inevitable 
wilful  birth-marks — the  experiments  of  my  poems  too  have  found 
genesis.  W.  W. 


POETRY    TO-DAY    IN 
AMERICA 

SHAKSPERE— THE  FUTURE 


STRANGE  as  it  may  seem,  the  topmost  proof  of  a  race  is  its  own 
born  poetry.  The  presence  of  that,  or  the  absence,  each  tells  its 
story.  As  the  flowering  rose  or  lily,  as  the  ripen' d  fruit  to  a  tree, 
the  apple  or  the  peach,  no  matter  how  fine  the  trunk,  or  copious  or 
rich  the  branches  and  foliage,  here  waits  sine  qua  non  at  last.  The 
stamp  of  entire  and  finish' d  greatness  to  any  nation,  to  the  American 
Republic  among  the  rest,  must  be  sternly  withheld  till  it  has  put  what 
it  stands  for  in  the  blossom  of  original,  first-class  poems.  No  imita 
tions  will  do. 

And  though  no  estbetik  worthy  the  present  condition  or  future 
certainties  of  the  New  World  seems  to  have  been  outlined  in  men's 
minds,  or  has  been  generally  called  for,  or  thought  needed,  I  am  clear 
that  until  the  United  States  have  just  such  definite  and  native  expressers 
in  the  highest  artistic  fields,  their  mere  political,  geographical,  wealth- 
forming,  and  even  intellectual  eminence,  however  astonishing  and 
predominant,  will  constitute  but  a  more  and  more  expanded  and  well- 
appointed  body,  and  perhaps  brain,  with  little  or  no  soul.  Sugar-coat 
the  grim  truth  as  we  may,  and  ward  off  with  outward  plausible  words, 
denials,  explanations,  to  the  mental  inward  perception  of  the  land  this 
blank  is  plain ;  a  barren  void  exists.  For  the  meanings  and  maturer 
purposes  of  these  States  are  not  the  constructing  of  a  new  world  of 
politics  merely,  and  physical  comforts  for  the  million,  but  even  more 
determinedly,  in  range  with  science  and  the  modern,  of  a  new  world 
of  democratic  sociology  and  imaginative  literature.  If  the  latter  were 
not  establish' d  for  the  States,  to  form  their  only  permanent  tie  and 
hold,  the  first-named  would  be  of  little  avail. 

With  the  poems  of  a  first-class  land  are  twined,  as  weft  with  warp, 
its  types  of  personal  character,  of  individuality,  peculiar,  native,  its 


282  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

own  physiognomy,  man's  and  woman's,  its  own  shapes,  forms,  and 
manners,  fully  justified  under  the  eternal  laws  of  all  forms,  all  manners, 
all  times.  The  hour  has  come  for  democracy  in  America  to  inaugu 
rate  itself  in  the  two  directions  specified  —  autochthonic  poems  and 
personalities — born  expressers  of  itself,  its  spirit  alone,  to  radiate  in 
subtle  ways,  not  only  in  art,  but  the  practical  and  familiar,  in  the 
transactions  between  employers  andemploy'd  persons,  in  business  and 
wages,  and  sternly  in  the  army  and  navy,  and  revolutionizing  them. 
I  find  nowhere  a  scope  profound  enough,  and  radical  and  objective 
enough,  either  for  aggregates  or  individuals.  The  thought  and 
identity  of  a  poetry  in  America  to  fill,  and  worthily  fill,  the  great 
void,  and  enhance  these  aims,  electrifying  all  and  several,  involves 
the  essence  and  integral  facts,  real  and  spiritual,  of  the  whole  land, 
the  whole  body.  What  the  great  sympathetic  is  to  the  congeries  of 
bones,  joints,  heart,  fluids,  nervous  system  and  vitality,  constituting, 
launching  forth  in  time  and  space  a  human  being  —  aye,  an  immortal 
soul  —  such  relation,  and  no  less,  holds  true  poetry  to  the  single 
personality,  or  to  the  nation. 

Here  our  thirty-eight  States  stand  to-day,  the  children  of  past  pre 
cedents,  and,  young  as  they  are,  heirs  of  a  very  old  estate.  One  or 
two  points  we  will  consider,  out  of  the  myriads  presenting  themselves. 
The  feudalism  of  the  British  Islands,  illustrated  by  Shakspere  —  and 
by  his  legitimate  followers,  Walter  Scott  and  Alfred  Tennyson  — 
with  all  its  tyrannies,  superstitions,  evils,  had  most  superb  and  heroic 
permeating  veins,  poems,  manners;  even  its  errors  fascinating.  It 
almost  seems  as  if  only  that  feudalism  in  Europe,  like  slavery  in  our 
own  South,  could  outcrop  types  of  tallest,  noblest  personal  character 
yet  —  strength  and  devotion  and  love  better  than  elsewhere  —  invin 
cible  courage,  generosity,  aspiration,  the  spines  of  all.  Here  is 
where  Shakspere  and  the  others  I  have  named  perform  a  service 
incalculably  precious  to  our  America.  Politics,  literature,  and  every 
thing  else,  centers  at  last  in  perfect  personnel,  (as  democracy  is  to 
find  the  same  as  the  rest;)  and  here  feudalism  is  unrival'd  —  here 
the  rich  and  highest-rising  lessons  it  bequeaths  us — a  mass  of  foreign 
nutriment,  which  we  are  to  work  over,  and  popularize  and  enlarge, 
and  present  again  in  our  own  growths. 

Still  there  are  pretty  grave  and  anxious  drawbacks,  jeopardies, 
fears.  Let  us  give  some  reflections  on  the  subject,  a  little  fluctuating, 
but  starting  from  one  central  thought,  and  returning  there  again. 
Two  or  three  curious  results  may  plow  up.  As  in  the  astronomical 
laws,  the  very  power  that  would  seem  most  deadly  and  destructive 
turns  out  to  be  latently  conservative  of  longest,  vastest  future  births 
and  lives.  We  will  for  once  briefly  examine  the  just-named  authors 
solely  from  a  Western  point  of  view.  It  may  be,  indeed,  that  we 


COLLECT  283 

shall  use  the  sun  of  English  literature,  and  the  brightest  current  stars 
of  his  system,  mainly  as  pegs  to  hang  some  cogitations  on,  for  home 
inspection. 

As  depicter  and  dramatist  of  the  passions  at  their  stormiest  < 
stretch,  though  ranking  high,  Shakspere  (spanning  the  arch  wide 
enough)  is  equal'd  by  several,  and  excell'd  by  the  best  old  Greeks, 
(as  JEschylus.)  But  in  portraying  mediaeval  European  lords  and 
barons,  the  arrogant  port,  so  dear  to  the  inmost  human  heart,  (pride  ! 
pride!  dearest,  perhaps,  of  all  — touching  us,  too,  of  the  States 
closest  of  all  — closer  than  love,)  he  stands  alone,  and  I  do  not 
wonder  he  so  witches  the  world. 

From  first  to  last,  also,  Walter  Scott  and  Tennyson,  like  Shakspere, 
exhale  that  principle  of  caste  which  we  Americans  have  come  on 
earth  to  destroy.  Jefferson's  verdict  on  the  Waverley  novels  was 
that  they  turn'd  and  condens'd  brilliant  but  entirely  false  lights  and 
glamours  over  the  lords,  ladies,  and  aristocratic  institutes  of  Europe, 
with  all  their  measureless  infamies,  and  then  left  the  bulk  of  the 
suffering,  down-trodden  people  contemptuously  in  the  shade.  With 
out  stopping  to  answer  this  hornet-stinging  criticism,  or  to  repay  any 
part  of  the  debt  of  thanks  I  owe,  in  common  with  every  American, 
to  the  noblest,  healthiest,  cheeriest  romancer  that  ever  lived,  I  pass 
on  to  Tennyson,  his  works. 

Poetry  here  of  a  very  high  (perhaps  the  highest)  order  ot  verbal 
melody,  exquisitely  clean  and  pure,  and  almost  always  perfumed, 
like  the  tuberose,  to  an  extreme  of  sweetness  —  sometimes  not,  how 
ever,  but  even  then  a  camellia  of  the  hot-house,  never  a  common 
flower  — the  verse  of  inside  elegance  and  high-life;  and  yet  pre 
serving  amid  all  its  super-delicatesse  a  smack  of  outdoors  and  out 
door  folk.  The  old  Norman  lordhood  quality  here,  too,  cross' d 
with  that  Saxon  fiber  from  which  twain  the  best  current  stock  of 
England  springs  —  poetry  that  revels  above  all  things  in  traditions  of 
knights  and  chivalry,  and  deeds  of  derring-do.  The  odor  of  English 
social  life  in  its  highest  range  — a  melancholy,  affectionate,  very 
manly,  but  dainty  breed  — pervading  the  pages  like  an  invisible  scent  ? 
the  idleness,  the  traditions,  the  mannerisms,  the  stately  ennui;  the 
yearning  of  love,  like  a  spinal  marrow,  inside  of  all  ;  the  costumes 
brocade  and  satin;  the  old  houses  and  furniture  —  solid  oak,  no 
mere  veneering  —  the  moldy  secrets  everywhere;  the  verdure,  the 
ivy  on  the  walls,  the  moat,  the  English  landscape  outside,  the  buzzing 
fly  in  the  sun  inside  the  window  pane.  Never  one  democratic  page  ; 
nay,  not  a  line,  not  a  word ;  never  free  and  nai  >e  poetry,  but 
involv'd,  labor'd,  quite  sophisticated  —  even  when  the  theme  is  ever 
so  simple  or  rustic,  (a  shell,  a  bit  of  sedge,  the  commonest  love- 
passage  between  a  lad  and  lass,)  the  handling  of  the  rhyme  all  show- 


284  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ing  the  scholar  and  conventional  gentleman  ;  showing  the  laureate, 
loo,  the  attache  of  the  throne,  and  most  excellent,  too ;  nothing 
better  through  the  volumes  than  the  dedication  "to  the  Queen"  at 
the  beginning,  and  the  other  fine  dedication,  "these  to  his  memory" 
(Prince  Albert's,)  preceding  "Idylls  of  the  King." 

Such  for  an  off-hand  summary  of  the  mighty  three  that  now,  by 
the  women,  men,  and  young  folk  of  the  fifty  millions  given  these 
States  by  their  late  census,  have  been  and  are  more  read  than  all 
others  put  together. 

We   hear  it  said,  both  of  Tennyson  and  another   current   leading 
literary  illustrator  of  Great  Britain,'  Carlyle  —  as  of  Victor  Hugo  in 
France  —  that   not  one   of  them   is  personally   friendly  or  admirant 
toward  America  ;  indeed,  quite  the  reverse.      N'importe.      That  they 
(and  more  good  minds  than  theirs)  cannot  span  the  vast  revolutionary 
arch  thrown  by  the   United   States  over  the   centuries,  fix'd  in   the 
present,  launch'd  to  the  endless  future;  that  they  cannot  stomach  the 
high-life-below-stairs  coloring  all  our  poetic  and  genteel  social  status  so 
far  —  the  measureless  viciousness  of  the  great  radical    Republic,  with 
its    ruffianly   nominations   and    elections;  its  loud,    ill-pitch' d    voice, 
utterly  regardless  whether  the  verb  agrees  with   the    nominative;   its 
fights,   errors,   eructations,   repulsions,   dishonesties,   audacities  ;  those 
fearful  and  varied  and  long-continu'd  storm  and  stress  stages  (so  offen 
sive  to  the  well-regulated  college-bred  mind)  wherewith  Nature,  his 
tory,  and  time  block  out  nationalities  more  powerful  than  the  past, 
and  to  upturn  it  and  press  on  to  the  future;  —  that  they  cannot  under 
stand  and  fathom  all  this,  I  say,  is  it  to  be  wonder' d  at?     Fortunately, 
the  gestation  of  our  thirty-eight  empires  (and  plenty  more  to  come) 
proceeds   on  its  course,   on  scales  of  area  and  velocity  immense  and 
absolute  as  the  globe,  and,  like  the  globe  itself,  quite  oblivious  even  of 
great  poets  and   thinkers.      But  we   can  by  no  means  afford  to  be 
oblivious  of  them. 

The  same  of  feudalism,  its  castles,  courts,  etiquettes,  personalities. 
However  they,  or  the  spirits  of  them  hovering  in  the  air,  might  scowl 
and  glower  at  such  removes  as  current  Kansas  or  Kentucky  life  and 
forms,  the  latter  may  by  no  means  repudiate  or  leave  out  the  former. 
Allowing  all  the  evil  that  it  did,  we  get,  here  and  to-day,  a  balance  of 
good  out  of  its  reminiscence  almost  beyond  price. 

Am  I  content,  then,  that  the  general  interior  chyle  of  our  republic 
should  be  supplied  and  nourish' d  by  wholesale  from  foreign  and 
antagonistic  sources  such  as  these?  Let  me  answer  that  question 
briefly : 

Years  ago  I  thought  Americans  ought  to  strike  out  separate,  and 
have  expressions  of  their  own  in  highest  literature.  I  think  so  still, 
and  more  decidedly  than  ever.  But  those  convictions  are  now  strongly 


COLLECT  285 

temper' d  by  some  additional  points,  (perhaps  the  results  of  advancing 
age,  or  the  reflection  of  invalidism.)  I  see  that  this  world  of  the 
West,  as  part  of  all,  fuses  inseparably  with  the  East,  and  with  all,  as 
time  does  —  the  ever  new  yet  old,  old  human  race  —  "  the  same  sub 
ject  continued/'  as  the  novels  of  our  grandfathers  had  it  for  chapter- 
heads.  If  we  are  not  to  hospitably  receive  and  complete  the  inaugura 
tions  of  the  old  civilizations,  and  change  their  small  scale  to  the  largest, 
broadest  scale,  what  on  earth  are  we  for  ? 

The  currents  of  practical  business  in  America,  the  rude,  coarse, 
tussling  facts  of  our  lives,  and  all  their  daily  experiences,  need  just  the 
precipitation  and  tincture  of  this  entirely  different  fancy  world  of  lull 
ing,  contrasting,  even  feudalistic,  anti-republican  poetry  and  romance. 
On  the  enormous  outgrowth  of  our  unloos'd  individualities,  and  the 
rank,  self-assertion  of  humanity  here,  may  well  fall  these  grace-persuad 
ing,  recherche  influences.  We  first  require  that  individuals  and  com 
munities  shall  be  free  ;  then  surely  comes  a  time  when  it  is  requisite 
that  they  shall  not  be  too  free.  Although  to  such  results  in  the  future 
I  look  mainly  for  a  great  poetry  native  to  us,  these  importations  till  then 
will  have  to  be  accepted,  such  as  they  are,  and  thankful  they  are  no 
worse.  The  inmost  spiritual  currents  of  the  present  time  curiously  re 
venge  and  check  their  own  compel!' d  tendency  to  democracy,  and  ab 
sorption  in  it,  by  mark'd  leanings  to  the  past  — by  reminiscences  in 
poems,  plots,  operas,  novels,  to  a  far-off,  contrary,  deceased  world,  as  if 
they  dreaded  the  great  vulgar  gulf-tides  of  to-day.  Then  what  has  been 
fifty  centuries  growing,  working  in,  and  accepted  as  crowns  and  apices 
for  our  kind,  is  not  going  to  be  pulled  down  and  discarded  in  a  hurry. 
It  is,  perhaps,  time  we  paid  our  respects  directly  to  the  honorable 
party,  the  real  object  of  these  preambles.  But  we  must  make  recon 
naissance  a  little  further  still.  Not  the  least  part  of  our  lesson  were  to 
realize  the  curiosity  and  interest  of  friendly  foreign  experts,*  and  how 
our  situation  looks  to  them.  "American  poetry,"  says  the  London 
««  Times,"f  is  the  poetry  of  apt  pupils,  but  it  is  afflicted  from  first 

*  A  few  years  ago  I  saw  the  question,  "Has  America  produced  any 
great  poem?"  announced  as  prize-subject  for  the  competition  of  some 
university  in  Northern  Europe.  I  saw  the  item  in  a  foreign  paper  and 
made  a  note  of  it  ;  but  being  taken  down  with  paralysis,  and  prostrated  for 
a  long  season,  the  matter  slipp'd  away,  and  I  have  never  been  able  since  to 
get  hold  of  any  essay  presented  for  the  prize,  or  report  of  the  discussion, 
nor  to  learn  for  certain  whether  there  was  any  essay  or  discussion,  nor  can 
I  now  remember  the  place.  It  may  have  been  Upsala,  or  possibly  Heidel 
berg.  Perhaps  some  German  or  Scandinavian  can  give  particulars, 
think  it  was  in  1872. 

-j-  In  a  long  and  prominent  editorial,  at  the  time,  on  the  death  of  William 
Cullen  Bryant. 


286  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

to  last  with  a  fatal  want  of  raciness.  Bryant  has  been  long  passed 
as  a  poet  by  Professor  Longfellow;  but  in  Longfellow,  with  all  his 
scholarly  grace  and  tender  feeling,  the  defect  is  more  apparent  than 
it  was  in  Bryant.  Mr.  Lowell  can  overflow  with  American  humor 
when  politics  inspire  his  muse ;  but  in  the  realm  of  pure  poetry  he  is 
no  more  American  than  a  Newdigate  prize-man.  Joaquin  Miller's 
verse  has  fluency  and  movement  and  harmony,  but  as  for  the  thought, 
his  songs  of  the  sierras  might  as  well  have  been  written  in  Holland." 

Unless  in  a  certain  very  slight  contingency,  the  "Times"  says: 
"American  verse,  from  its  earliest  to  its  latest  stages,  seems  an  exotic, 
with  an  exuberance  of  gorgeous  blossom,  but  no  principle  of  repro 
duction.  That  is  the  very  note  and  test  of  its  inherent  want. 
Great  poets  are  tortured  and  massacred  by  having  their  flowers  of 
fancy  gathered  and  gummed  down  in  the  bortus  siccus  of  an  anthol 
ogy.  American  poets  show  better  in  an  anthology  than  in  the 
collected  volumes  of  their  works.  Like  their  audience  they  have 
been  unable  to  resist  the  attraction  of  the  vast  orbit  of  English  litera 
ture.  They  may  talk  of  the  primeval  forest,  but  it  would  generally 
be  very  hard  from  internal  evidence  to  detect  that  they  were  writing 
on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  rather  than  on  those  of  the  Thames. 
•  •  •  •  In  fact,  they  have  caught  the  English  tone  and  air  and 
mood  only  too  faithfully,  and  are  accepted  by  the  superficially 
cultivated  English  intelligence  as  readily  as  if  they  were  English 
born.  Americans  themselves  confess  to  a  certain  disappointment 
that  a  literary  curiosity  and  intelligence  so  diffused  [as  in  the 
United  States]  have  not  taken  up  English  literature  at  the  point 
at  which  America  has  received  it,  and  carried  it  forward  and 
developed  it  with  an  independent  energy.  But  like  reader  like 
poet.  Both  show  the  effects  of  having  come  into  an  estate  they 
have  not  earned.  A  nation  of  readers  has  required  of  its  poets  a 
diction  and  symmetry  of  form  equal  to  that  of  an  old  literature  like 
that  of  Great  Britain,  which  is  also  theirs.  No  ruggedness,  how 
ever  racy,  would  be  tolerated  by  circles  which,  however  superficial 
their  culture,  read  Byron  and  Tennyson." 

The  English  critic,  though  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  and  friendly 
withal,  is  evidently  not  altogether  satisfied,  (perhaps  he  is  jealous,) 
and  winds  up  by  saying  :  "  For  the  English  language  to  have  been  en 
riched  with  a  national  poetry  which  was  not  English  but  American, 
would  have  been  a  treasure  beyond  price."  With  which,  as  whet 
and  foil,  we  shall  proceed  to  ventilate  more  definitely  certain  no 
doubt  willful  opinions. 

Leaving  unnoticed  at  present  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  antique, 
or  anything  from  the  middle  ages,  the  prevailing  flow  of  poetry  for  the 
last  fifty  or  eighty  years,  and  now  at  its  height,  has  been  and  is  (like 


COLLECT  287 

the  music)  an  expression  of  mere  surface  melody,  within  narrow 
limits,  and  yet,  to  give  it  its  due,  perfectly  satisfying  to  the  demands 
of  the  ear,  of  wondrous  charm,  of  smooth  and  easy  delivery,  and  the 
triumph  of  technical  art.  Above  all  things  it  is  fractional  and  select. 
It  shrinks  with  aversion  from  the  sturdy,  the  universal,  and  the 
democratic. 

The  poetry  of  the  future,  (a  phrase  open  to  sharp  criticism,  and 
not  satisfactory  to  me,  but  significant,  and  I  will  use  it) — the  poetry 
of  the  future  aims  at  the  free  expression  of  emotion,  (which  means 
far,  far  more  than  appears  at  first,)  and  to  arouse  and  initiate,  more 
than  to  define  or  finish.  Like  all  modern  tendencies,  it  has  direct  or 
indirect  reference  continually  to  the  reader,  to  you  or  me,  to  the 
central  identity  of  everything,  the  mighty  Ego.  (Byron's  was  a 
vehement  dash,  with  plenty  of  impatient  democracy,  but  lurid  and  in 
troverted  amid  all  its  magnetism  ;  not  at  all  the  fitting,  lasting  song  of 
a  grand,  secure,  free,  sunny  race.)  It  is  more  akin,  likewise,  to  out 
side  life  and  landscape,  (returning  mainly  to  the  antique  feeling,)  real 
sun  and  gale,  and  woods  and  shores — to  the  elements  themselves  — 
not  sitting  at  ease  in  parlor  or  library  listening  to  a  good  tale  of  them, 
told  in  good  rhyme.  Character,  a  feature  far  above  style  or  polish  — 
a  feature  not  absent  at  any  time,  but  now  first  brought  to  the  fore  — 
gives  predominant  stamp  to  advancing  poetry.  Its  born  sister,  music, 
already  responds  to  the  same  influences.  "  The  music  of  the  present, 
Wagner's,  Gounod's,  even  the  later  Verdi's,  all  tends  toward  this 
free  expression  of  poetic  emotion,  and  demands  a  vocalism  totally 
unlike  that  required  for  Rossini's  splendid  roulades,  or  Bellini's 
suave  melodies." 

Is  there  not  even  now,  indeed,  an  evolution,  a  departure  from  the 
masters  ?  Venerable  and  unsurpassable  after  their  kind  as  are  the  old 
works,  and  always  unspeakably  precious  as  studies,  (for  Americans 
more  than  any  other  people,)  is  it  too  much  to  say  that  by  the  shifted 
combinations  of  the  modern  mind  the  whole  underlying  theory  of  first- 
class  verse  has  changed?  "Formerly,  during  the  period  term'd 
classic,"  says  Sainte-Beuve,  "when  literature  was  govern'd  by  recog 
nized  rules,  he  was  consider' d  the  best  poet  who  had  composed  the 
most  perfect  work,  the  most  beautiful  poem,  the  most  intelligible, 
the  most  agreeable  to  read,  the  most  complete  in  every  respect,  — 
the  ^neid,  the  Gerusalemme,  a  fine  tragedy.  To-day,  something 
else  is  wanted.  For  us  the  greatest  poet  is  he  who  in  his  works 
most  stimulates  the  reader's  imagination  and  reflection,  who  excites 
him  the  most  himself  to  poetize.  The  greatest  poet  is  not  he  who 
has  done  the  best ;  it  is  he  who  suggests  the  most ;  he,  not  all  of 
whose  meaning  is  at  first  obvious,  and  who  leaves  you  much  to 
desire,  to  explain,  to  study,  much  to  complete  in  your  turn,'* 
20 


288  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

The  fatal  defects  our  American  singers  labor  under  are  subordina 
tion  of  spirit,  an  absence  of  the  concrete  and  of  real  patriotism,  and  in 
excess  that  modern  esthetic  contagion  a  queer  friend  of  mine  calls  the 
beauty  disease.  "The  immoderate  taste  for  beauty  and  art,'*  says 
Charles  Baudelaire,  "leads  men  into  monstrous  excesses.  In  minds 
imbued  with  a  frantic  greed  for  the  beautiful,  all  the  balances  of  truth 
and  justice  disappear.  There  is  a  lust,  a  disease  of  the  art  faculties, 
which  eats  up  the  moral  like  a  cancer." 

Of  course,  by  our  plentiful  verse-writers  there  is  plenty  of  service 
perform* d,  of  a  kind.  Nor  need  we  go  far  for  a  tally.  We  see,  in 
every  polite  circle,  a  class  of  accomplish' d,  good-natured  persons, 
("society,"  in  fact,  could  not  get  on  without  them,)  fully  eligible 
for  certain  problems,  times,  and  duties — to  mix  egg-nog,  to  mend 
the  broken  spectacles,  to  decide  whether  the  stew'd  eels  shall  precede 
the  sherry  or  the  sherry  the  stew'd  eels,  to  eke  out  Mrs.  A.  B.'s 
parlor-tableaux  with  monk,  Jew,  lover,  Puck,  Prospero,  Caliban,  or 
what  not,  and  to  generally  contribute  and  gracefully  adapt  their  flex 
ibilities  and  talents,  in  those  ranges,  to  the  world's  service.  But  for 
real  crises,  great  needs  and  pulls,  moral  or  physical,  they  might  as 
well  have  never  been  born. 

Or  the  accepted  notion  of  a  poet  would  appear  to  be  a  sort  of 
male  odalisque,  singing  or  piano-playing  a  kind  of  spiced  ideas, 
second-hand  reminiscences,  or  toying  late  hours  at  entertainments, 
in  rooms  stifling  with  fashionable  scent.  I  think  I  haven't  seen  a 
new-publish'd,  healthy,  bracing,  simple  lyric  in  ten  years.  Not  long 
ago,  there  were  verses  in  each  of  three  fresh  monthlies,  from  leading 
authors,  and  in  every  one  the  whole  central  motif  (perfectly  serious) 
was  the  melancholiness  of  a  marriageable  young  woman  who  didn't 
get  a  rich  husband,  but  a  poor  one  ! 

Besides  its  tonic  and  al  fresco  physiology,  relieving  such  as  this, 
the  poetry  of  the  future  will  take  on  character  in  a  more  important 
respect.  Science,  having  extirpated  the  old  stock-fables  and  super 
stitions,  is  clearing  a  field  for  verse,  for  all  the  arts,  and  even  for  ro 
mance,  a  hundred-fold  ampler  and  more  wonderful,  with  the  new 
principles  behind.  Republicanism  advances  over  the  whole  world. 
Liberty,  with  Law  by  her  side,  will  one  day  be  paramount — will  at 
any  rate  be  the  central  idea.  Then  only  — for  all  the  splendor  and 
beauty  of  what  has  been,  or  the  polish  of  what  is — then  only  will 
the  true  poets  appear,  and  the  true  poems.  Not  the  satin  and 
patchouly  of  to-day,  not  the  glorification  of  the  butcheries  and  wars 
of  the  past,  nor  any  fight  between  Deity  on  one  side  and  some 
body  else  on  the  other — not  Milton,  not  even  Shakspere's  plays, 
grand  as  they  are.  Entirely  different  and  hitherto  unknown  classes 
of  men,  being  authoritatively  called  for  in  imaginative  literature,  will 


COLLECT  289 

certainly  appear.  What  is  hitherto  most  lacking,  perhaps  most  abso 
lutely  indicates  the  future.  Democracy  has  been  hurried  on  through 
time  by  measureless  tides  and  winds,  resistless  as  the  revolution  of  the 
globe,  and  as  far-reaching  and  rapid.  But  in  the  highest  walks  of 
art  it  has  not  yet  had  a  single  representative  worthy  of  it  anywhere 
upon  the  earth. 

Never  had  real  bard  a  task  more  fit  for  sublime  ardor  and  genius 
than  to  sing  worthily  the  songs  these  States  have  already  indicated. 
Their  origin,  Washington,  '76,  the  picturesqueness  of  old  times,  the 
war  of  1812  and  the  sea-fights;  the  incredible  rapidity  of  movement 
and  breadth  of  area — to  fuse  and  compact  the  South  and  North,  the 
East  and  West,  to  express  the  native  forms,  situations,  scenes,  from 
Montauk  to  California,  and  from  the  Saguenay  to  the  Rio  Grande  — 
the  working  out  on  such  gigantic  scales,  and  with  such  a  swift  and 
mighty  play  of  changing  light  and  shade,  of  the  great  problems  of 
man  and  freedom,  — how  far  ahead  of  the  stereotyped  plots,  or  gem- 
cutting,  or  tales  of  love,  or  wars  of  mere  ambition  !  Our  history  is 
so  full  of  spinal,  modern,  germinal  subjects  —  one  above  all.  What 
the  ancient  siege  of  Illium,  and  the  puissance  of  Hector's  and  Aga 
memnon's  warriors  proved  to  Hellenic  art  and  literature,  and  all  art 
and  literature  since,  may  prove  the  war  of  attempted  secession  of 
1 86 1 -'6  5  to  the  future  esthetics,  drama,  romance,  poems  of  the 
United  States. 

Nor  could  utility  itself  provide  anything  more  practically  service 
able  to  the  hundred  millions  who,  a  couple  of  generations  hence,  will 
inhabit  within  the  limits  just  named,  than  the  permeation  of  a  sane, 
sweet,  autochthonous  national  poetry  —  must  I  say  of  a  kind  that 
does  not  now  exist?  but  which,  I  fully  believe,  will  in  time  be  sup 
plied  on  scales  as  free  as  Nature's  elements.  (It  is  acknowledged 
that  we  of  the  States  are  the  most  materialistic  and  money-making 
people  ever  known.  My  own  theory,  while  fully  accepting  this,  is 
that  we  are  the  most  emotional,  spiritualistic,  and  poetry-loving 
people  also.) 

Infinite  are  the  new  and  orbic  traits  waiting  to  be  launch' d  forth  in 
the  firmament  that  is,  and  is  to  be,  America.  Lately,  I  have  wonder' d 
whether  the  last  meaning  of  this  cluster  of  thirty-eight  States  is  not 
only  practical  fraternity  among  themselves  —  the  only  real  union, 
(much  nearer  its  accomplishment,  too,  than  appears  on  the  surface)  — 
but  for  fraternity  over  the  whole  globe  —  that  dazzling,  pensive  dream 
of  ages  !  Indeed,  the  peculiar  glory  of  our  lands,  I  have  come  to 
see,  or  expect  to  see,  not  in  their  geographical  or  republican  greatness, 
nor  wealth  or  products,  nor  military  or  naval  power,  nor  special,  emi 
nent  names  in  any  department,  to  shine  with,  or  outshine,  foreign 
special  names  in  similar  departments, — but  more  and  more  in  a  vaster, 


290  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

saner,  more  surrounding  Comradeship,  uniting  closer  and  closer  not 
only  the  American  States,  but  all  nations,  and  all  humanity.  That, 
O  poets !  is  not  that  a  theme  worth  chanting,  striving  for  ?  Why  not 
fix  your  verses  henceforth  to  the  gauge  of  the  round  globe  ?  the  whole 
race  ?  Perhaps  the  most  illustrious  culmination  of  the  modern  may 
thus  prove  to  be  a  signal  growth  of  joyous,  more  exalted  bards  of 
adhesiveness,  identically  one  in  soul,  but  contributed  by  every  nation, 
each  after  its  distinctive  kind.  Let  us,  audacious,  start  it.  Let  the 
diplomats,  as  ever,  still  deeply  plan,  seeking  advantages,  proposing 
treaties  between  governments,  and  to  bind  them,  on  paper :  what  I 
seek  is  different,  simpler.  I  would  inaugurate  from  America,  for  this 
purpose,  new  formulas  —  international  poems.  I  have  thought  that 
the  invisible  root  out  of  which  the  poetry  deepest  in,  and  dearest  to, 
humanity  grows,  is  Friendship.  I  have  thought  that  both  in  patriotism 
and  song  (even  amid  their  grandest  shows  past)  we  have  adhered 
too  long  to  petty  limits,  and  that  the  time  has  come  to  enfold  the 
world. 

Not  only  is  the  human  and  artificial  world  we  have  established  in 
the  West  a  radical  departure  from  anything  hitherto  known — not  only 
men  and  politics,  and  all  that  goes  with  them  —  but  Nature  itself,  in 
the  main  sense,  its  construction,  is  different.  The  same  old  font  of 
type,  of  course,  but  set  up  to  a  text  never  composed  or  issued  before. 
For  Nature  consists  not  only  in  itself,  objectively,  but  at  least  just  as 
much  in  its  subjective  reflection  from  the  person,  spirit,  age,  look 
ing  at  it,  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  absorbing  it  —  faithfully  sends  back 
the  characteristic  beliefs  of  the  time  or  individual  —  takes,  and  readily 
gives  again,  the  physiognomy  of  any  nation  or  literature  —  falls 
like  a  great  elastic  veil  on  a  face,  or  like  the  molding  plaster  on  a 
statue. 

What  is  Nature  ?  What  were  the  elements,  the  invisible  back 
grounds  and  eidolons  of  it,  to  Homer*  s  heroes,  voyagers,  gods  ? 
What  all  through  the  wanderings  of  Virgil's  ^Eneas  ?  Then  to 
Shakspere's  characters  —  Hamlet,  Lear,  the  English-Norman  kings, 
the  Romans  ?  What  was  Nature  to  Rousseau,  to  Voltaire,  to  the 
German  Goethe  in  his  little  classical  court  gardens  ?  In  those  pre 
sentments  in  Tennyson  (see  the  "Idylls  of  the  King"  — what  sump 
tuous,  perfumed,  arras-and-gold  Nature,  inimitably  described,  better 
than  any,  fit  for  princes  and  knights  and  peerless  ladies  —  wrathful  or 
peaceful,  just  the  same  —  Vivien  and  Merlin  in  their  strange  dalliance, 
or  the  death-float  of  Elaine,  or  Geraint  and  the  long  journey  of  his 
disgraced  Enid  and  himself  through  the  wood,  and  the  wife  all  day 
driving  the  horses,)  as  in  all  the  great  imported  art- works,  treatises, 
systems,  from  Lucretius  down,  there  is  a  constantly  lurking,  often  per 
vading  something,  that  will  have  to  be  eliminated,  as  not  only  unsuited 


COLLECT  291 

to  modern  democracy  and  science  in  America,  but  insulting  to  them, 
and  disproved  by  them.* 

Still   the  rule  and  demesne  of  poetry  will  always  be  not  the  exterior, 
but  interior;  not  the  macrocosm,  but  microcosm;  not   Nature,  but 
Man       I  haven't  said  anything  about  the  imperative  need  of  a  race  of 
giant' bards  in  the  future,  to  hold  up  high  to  eyes  of  land  and  race  the 
eternal  antiseptic  models,  and  to  dauntlessly  confront  greed    injustice, 
and  all  forms  of  that  wiliness  and  tyranny  whose  roots  never  die  — (my 
opinion  is,  that  after  all  the  rest  is  advanced,  that  is  what  first-class 
poets  are  for;  as,  to  their  days  and  occasions    the  Hebrew  lyrists 
Roman  Juvenal,  and  doubtless  the  old  singers  of  India,  and    he  British 
Druids)  —  to  counteract  dangers,  immensest  ones,  already  looming  in 
America  — measureless  corruption  in  politics  —  what  we  call  religion, 
a  mere  mask  of  wax  or  lace  ;—  for  ensemble,  that  most  cankerous,  offen 
sive  of  all  earth's  shows  —  a  vast  and  varied  community,  prosperous 
and  fat  with  wealth  of  money  and  products  and  business  ventures  — 
plenty  of  mere  intellectuality  too  — and  then  utterly  without  the  sound 
prevailing,  moral  and  esthetic  health-action  beyond  all  the  money  and 
mere  intellect  of  the  world. 

Is  it  a  dream  of  mine  that,  in  times  to  come,  west,  south,  east,  north, 
will  silently,  surely  arise  a  race  of  such  poets,  varied,  yet  one  in  soul- 
nor  only  poets,  and  of  the  best,  but  newer,  larger  prophets  —  larger 
than  Judea's,  and  more  passionate— to  meet  and  penetrate  those  woes, 
as  shafts  of  light  the  darkness  ? 

As  I  write,  the  last  fifth  of  the  nineteenth  century  is  enter  d  upon, 
and  will  soon  be  waning.  Now,  and  for  a  long  time  to  come,  what 
the  United  States  most  need,  to  give  purport,  defimteness,  reason  why, 
to  their  unprecedented  material  wealth,  industrial  products,  education 
by  rote  merely,  great  populousness  and  intellectual  activity,  is  the 
central,  spinal  reality,  (or  even  the  idea  of  it,)  of  such  a  democratic 
band  of  native-born-and-bred  teachers,  artists,  litterateurs :  tolerant  and 
receptive  of  importations,  but  entirely  adjusted  to  the  West,  to  our 
selves  to  our  own  days,  combinations,  differences,  superiorities 
Indeed,  I  am  fond  of  thinking  that  the  whole  series  of  concrete  am 
political  triumphs  of  the  Republic  are  mainly  as  bases  and  preparations 
for  half  a  dozen  future  poets,  ideal  personalities,  referring  not 
special  class,  but  to  the  entire  people,  four  or  five  millions  < 

miles.  ______ - 

*  Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  few  principal  poems  —  or  their  best  pas- 
saees  — it  is  certain  that  the  overwhelming  mass  of  poetic  works,  as  now 
absorb'd  into  human  character,  exerts  a  certain  constipating,  repressing,  in 
door,  and  artificial  influence,  impossible  to  elude -seldom  or  never  that 
freeing,  dilating,  joyous  one,  with  which  uncramp'd  Nature  works  on  every 
individual  without  exception. 


292  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Long,  long  are  the  processes  of  the  development  of  a  nationality. 
Only  to  the  rapt  vision  does  the  seen  become  the  prophecy  of  the 
unseen.*  Democracy,  so  far  attending  only  to  the  real,  is  not  for 
the  real  only,  but  a ••  grandest  ideal —  to  justify  the  modern  by  that, 
and  not  only  to  equal,  but  to  become  by  that  superior  to  the  past. 

*  Is  there  not  such  a  thing  as  the  philosophy  of  American  history  and 
politics  ?  And  if  so,  what  is  it  ?  .  .  .  Wise  men  say  there  are  two  sets 
of  wills  to  nations  and  to  persons — one  set  that  acts  and  works  from  ex 
plainable  motives  —  from  teaching,  intelligence,  judgment,  circumstance, 
caprice,  emulation,  greed,  &c. —  and  then  another  set,  perhaps  deep, 
hidden,  unsuspected,  yet  often  more  potent  than  the  first,  refusing  to  be 
argued  with,  rising  as  it  were  out  of  abysses,  resistlessly  urging  on  speak 
ers,  doers,  communities,  unwitting  to  themselves  —  the  poet  to  his  fieriest 
words — the  race  to  pursue  its  loftiest  ideal.  Indeed,  the  paradox  of  a 
nation's  life  and  career,  with  all  its  wondrous  contradictions,  can  probably 
only  be  explained  from  these  two  wills,  sometimes  conflicting,  each  oper 
ating  in  its  sphere,  combining  in  races  or  in  persons,  and  producing 
strangest  results. 

Let  us  hope  there  is  (indeed,  can  there  be  any  doubt  there  is  ?)  this  great 
unconscious  and  abysmic  second  will  also  running  through  the  average  na 
tionality  and  career  of  America.  Let  us  hope  that,  amid  all  the  dangers 
and  defections  of  the  present,  and  through  all  the  processes  of  the  conscious 
will,  it  alone  is  the  permanent  and  sovereign  force,  destined  to  carry  on  the 
New  World  to  fulfil  its  destinies  in  the  future  —  to  resolutely  pursue  those 
destinies,  age  upon  age  ;  to  build,  far,  far  beyond  its  past  vision,  present 
thought  ;  to  form  and  fashion,  and  for  the  general  type,  men  and  women 
more  noble,  more  athletic  than  the  world  has  yet  seen  ;  to  gradually,  firmly 
blend,  from  all  the  States,  with  all  varieties,  a  friendly,  happy,  free,  relig 
ious  nationality  —  a  nationality  not  only  the  richest,  most  inventive,  most 
productive  and  materialistic  the  world  has  yet  known,  but  compacted 
indissolubly,  and  out  of  whose  ample  and  solid  bulk,  and  giving  pur 
pose  and  finish  to  it,  conscience,  morals,  and  all  the  spiritual  attributes, 
shall  surely  rise,  like  spires  above  some  group  of  edifices,  firm-footed 
on  the  earth,  yet  scaling  space  and  heaven. 

Great  as  they  are,  and  greater  far  to  be,  the  United  States,  too,  are  but 
a  series  of  steps  in  the  eternal  process  of  creative  thought.  And  here  is,  to 
my  mind,  their  final  justification,  and  certain  perpetuity.  There  is  in  that 
sublime  process,  in  the  laws  of  the  universe  —  and,  above  all,  in  the  moral 
law  —  something  that  would  make  unsatisfactory,  and  even  vain  and  con 
temptible,  all  the  triumphs  of  war,  the  gains  of  peace,  and  the  proudest 
worldly  grandeur  of  all  the  nations  that  have  ever  existed,  or  that  (ours  in 
cluded)  now  exist,  except  that  we  constantly  see,  through  all  their  worldly 
career,  however  struggling  and  blind  and  lame,  attempts,  by  all  ages,  all 
peoples,  according  to  their  development,  to  reach,  to  press,  to  progress  on, 
and  ever  farther  on,  to  more  and  more  advanced  ideals. 

The  glory  of  the  republic  of  the  United  States,  in  my  opinion,  is  to  be 
that,  emerging  in  the  light  of  the  modern  and  the  splendor  of  science,  and 


COLLECT  293 

On  a  comprehensive  summing  up  of  the  processes  and  present  and 
hitherto  condition  of  the  United  States,  with  reference  to  their  future, 
and  the  indispensable  precedents  to  it,  my  point,  below  all  surfaces, 
and  subsoiling  them,  is,  that  the  bases  and  prerequisites  of  a  leading 
nationality  are,  first,  at  all  hazards,  freedom,  worldly  wealth  and 
products  on  the  largest  and  most  varied  scale,  common  education  and 
intercommunication,  and,  in  general,  the  passing  through  of  just  the 
stages  and  crudities  we  have  passed  or  are  passing  through  in  the 
United  States. 

Then,  perhaps,  as  weightiest  factor  of  the  whole  business,  and  of 

solidly  based  on  the  past,  it  is  to  cheerfully  range  itself,  and  its  politics  are 
henceforth  to  come,  under  those  universal  laws,  and  embody  them,  and 
carry  them  out,  to  serve  them.  And  as  only  that  individual  becomes  truly 
great  who  understands  well  that,  while  complete  in  himself  in  a  certain 
sense,  he  is  but  a  part  of  the  divine,  eternal  scheme,  and  whose  special  life 
and  laws  are  adjusted  to  move  in  harmonious  relations  with  the  general  laws 
of  Nature,  and  especially  with  the  moral  law,  the  deepest  and  highest  of 
all,  and  the  last  vitality  of  man  or  state  —  so  the  United  States  may  only 
become  the  greatest  and  the  most  continuous,  by  understanding  well  their 
harmonious  relations  with  entire  humanity  and  history,  and  all  their  laws 
and  progress,  sublimed  with  the  creative  thought  of  Deity,  through  all 
time,  past,  present,  and  future.  Thus  will  they  expand  to  the  amplitude 
of  their  destiny,  and  become  illustrations  and  culminating  parts  of  the  kos- 
mos,  and  of  civilization. 

No  more  considering  the  States  as  an  incident,  or  series  of  incidents, 
however  vast,  coming  accidentally  along  the  path  of  time,  and  shaped  by 
casual  emergencies  as  they  happen  to  arise,  and  the  mere  result  of  modern 
improvements,  vulgar  and  lucky,  ahead  of  other  nations  and  times,  I  would 
finally  plant,  as  seeds,  these  thoughts  or  speculations  in  the  growth  of  our 
republic  —  that  it  is  the  deliberate  culmination  and  result  of  all  the  past  — 
that  here,  too,  as  in  all  departments  of  the  universe,  regular  laws  (slow  and 
sure  in  planting,  slow  and  sure  in  ripening)  have  controll'd  and  governed, 
and  will  yet  control  and  govern  j  and  that  those  laws  can  no  more  be  baffled 
or  steer' d  clear  of,  or  vitiated,  by  chance,  or  any  fortune  or  opposition, 
than  the  laws  of  winter  and  summer,  or  darkness  and  light. 

The  summing  up  of  the  tremendous  moral  and  military  perturbations  of 
1 86 1-' 65,  and  their  results  —  and  indeed  of  the  entire  hundred  years  of  the 
past  of  our  national  experiment,  from  its  inchoate  movement  down  to  the 
present  day  (1780-1881)  —  is,  that  they  all  now  launch  the  United  States 
fairly  forth,  consistently  with  the  entirety  of  civilization  and  humanity,  and 
in  main  sort  the  representative  of  them,  leading  the  van,  leading  the  fleet  of 
the  modern  and  democratic,  on  the  seas  and  voyages  of  the  future. 

And  the  real  history  of  the  United  States  —  starting  from  that  great  con 
vulsive  struggle  for  unity,  the  secession  war,  triumphantly  concluded,  and 
tbe  South  victorious  after  all — is  only  to  be  written  at  the  remove  of  hun 
dreds,  perhaps  a  thousand,  years  hence. 


294  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  main  outgrowths  of  the  future,  it  remains  to  be  definitely  avow'd 
that  the  native-born  middle-class  population  of  quite  all  the  United 
States  —  the  average  of  farmers  and  mechanics  everywhere — the  real, 
though  latent  and  silent  bulk  of  America,  city  or  country,  presents  a 
magnificent  mass  of  material,  never  before  equal' d  on  earth.  It  is 
this  material,  quite  unexpressed  by  literature  or  art,  that  in  every 
respect  insures  the  future  of  the  republic.  During  the  secession  war 
I  was  with  the  armies,  and  saw  the  rank  and  file,  north  and  south, 
and  studied  them  for  four  years.  I  have  never  had  the  least  doubt 
about  the  country  in  its  essential  future  since. 

Meantime,  we  can  (perhaps)  do  no  better  than  to  saturate  our 
selves  with,  and  continue  to  give  imitations,  yet  awhile,  of  the  esthetic 
models,  supplies,  of  that  past  and  of  those  lands  we  spring  from. 
Those  wondrous  stores,  reminiscences,  floods,  currents  !  Let  them 
flow  on,  flow  hither  freely.  And  let  the  sources  be  enlarged,  to  in 
clude  not  only  the  works  of  British  origin,  as  now,  but  stately  and 
devout  Spain,  courteous  France,  profound  Germany,  the  manly  Scan 
dinavian  lands,  Italy's  art  race,  and  always  the  mystic  Orient. 
Remembering  that  at  present,  and  doubtless  long  ahead,  a  certain 
humility  would  well  become  us.  The  course  through  time  of  highest 
civilization,  does  it  not  wait  the  first  glimpse  of  our  contribution  to  its 
kosmic  train  of  poems,  bibles,  first-class  structures,  perpetuities  — 
Egypt  and  Palestine  and  India  —  Greece  and  Rome  and  mediaeval 
Europe  —  and  so  onward  ?  The  shadowy  procession  is  not  a  meagre 
one,  and  the  standard  not  a  low  one.  All  that  is  mighty  in  our  kind 
seems  to  have  already  trod  the  road.  Ah,  never  may  America  forget 
her  thanks  and  reverence  for  samples,  treasures  such  as  these — that 
other  life-blood,  inspiration,  sunshine,  hourly  in  use  to-day,  all  days, 
forever,  through  her  broad  demesne  ! 

All  serves  our  New  World  progress,  even  the  bafflers,  head-winds, 
cross-tides.  Through  many  perturbations  and  squalls,  and  much 
backing  and  filling,  the  ship,  upon  the  whole,  makes  unmistakably  for 
her  destination.  Shakspere  has  served,  and  serves,  may-be,  the  best 
of  any. 

For  conclusion,  a  passing  thought,  a  contrast,  of  him  who,  in  my 
opinion,  continues  and  stands  for  the  Shaksperean  cultus  at  the  present 
day  among  all  English-writing  peoples  —  of  Tennyson,  his  poetry.  I 
find  it  impossible,  as  I  taste  the  sweetness  of  those  lines,  to  escape  the 
flavor,  the  conviction,  the  lush-ripening  culmination,  and  last  honey  of 
decay  (I  dare  not  call  it  rottenness)  of  that  feudalism  which  the 
mighty  English  dramatist  painted  in  all  the  splendors  of  its  noon  and 
afternoon.  And  how  they  are  chanted  —  both  poets!  Happy  those 
kings  and  nobles  to  be  so  sung,  so  told  !  To  run  their  course  —  to 


COLLECT  295 

get  their  deeds  and  shapes  in  lasting  pigments  —  the  very  pomp  and 
dazzle  of  the  sunset  ! 

Meanwhile,  democracy  waits  the  coming  of  its  bards  in  silence  and 
in  twilight  —  but  'tis  the  twilight  of  the  dawn. 


A    MEMORANDUM    AT    A 
VENTURE 


"  All  is  proper  to  be  expressed,  provided  our  aim  is  only  high  enough." 
—  J.  F.  "  Met. 

"The  candor  of  science  is  the  glory  of  the  modern.  It  does  not  hide 
and  repress ;  it  confronts,  turns  on  the  light.  It  alone  has  perfect 
faith  —  faith  not  in  a  part  only,  but  all.  Does  it  not  undermine  the  old 
religious  standards?  Yes,  in  God's  truth,  by  excluding  the  devil  from  the 
theory  of  the  universe  —  by  showing  that  evil  is  not  a  law  in  itself,  but  a 
sickness,  a  perversion  of  the  good,  and  the  other  side  of  the  good  —  that  in 
fact  all  of  humanity,  and  of  everything,  is  divine  in  its  bases,  its  eligibilities." 

SHALL  the  mention  of  su»h  topics  as  I  have  briefly  but  plainly  and 
resolutely  broach'd  in  the  "Children  of  Adam"  section  of  "Leaves 
of  Grass'*  be  admitted  in  poetry  and  literature?  Ought  not  the 
innovation  to  be  put  down  by  opinion  and  criticism  ?  and,  if  those 
fail,  by  the  District  Attorney?  True,  I  could  not  construct  a  poem 
which  declaredly  took,  as  never  before,  the  complete  human  identity, 
physical,  moral,  emotional,  and  intellectual,  (giving  precedence  and 
compass  in  a  certain  sense  to  the  first,)  nor  fulfil  that  bona  fde  candor 
and  entirety  of  treatment  which  was  a  part  of  my  purpose,  without 
comprehending  this  section  also.  But  I  would  entrench  myself  more 
deeply  and  widely  than  that.  And  while  I  do  not  ask  any  man  to 
indorse  my  theory,  I  confess  myself  anxious  that  what  I  sought  to 
write  and  express,  and  the  ground  I  built  on,  shall  be  at  least  partially 
understood,  from  its  own  platform.  The  best  way  seems  to  me  to 
confront  the  question  with  entire  frankness. 

There  are,  generally  speaking,  two  points  of  view,  two  conditions 
of  the  world's  attitude  toward  these  matters  ;  the  first,  the  conven 
tional  one  of  good  folks  and  good  print  everywhere,  repressing  any 
direct  statement  of  them,  and  making  allusions  only  at  second  or  third 
hand —  (as  the  Greeks  did  of  death,  which,  in  Hellenic  social  culture, 


COLLECT  297 

was  not  mentioned  point-blank,  but  by  euphemisms.)  In  the  civiliza 
tion  of  to-day,  this  condition  —  without  stopping  to  elaborate  the 
arguments  and  facts,  which  are  many  and  varied  and  perplexing  — 
has  led  to  states  of  ignorance,  repressal,  and  cover' d  over  disease  and 
depletion,  forming  certainly  a  main  factor  in  the  world's  woe.  A  non- 
scientific,  non-esthetic,  and  eminently  non-religious  condition,  be 
queath' d  to  us  from  the  past,  (its  origins  diverse,  one  of  them  the 
far-back  lessons  of  benevolent  and  wise  men  to  restrain  the  prevalent 
coarseness  and  animality  of  the  tribal  ages  — with  Puritanism,  or  per 
haps  Protestantism  itself  for  another,  and  still  another  specified  in  the 
latter  part  of  this  memorandum) — to  it  is  probably  due  most  of  the  ill 
births,  inefficient  maturity,  snickering  pruriency,  and  of  that  human 
pathologic  evil  and  morbidity  which  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  keel  and 
reason- why  of  every  evil  and  morbidity.  Its  scent,  as  of  something 
sneaking,  furtive,  mephitic,  seems  to  lingeringly  pervade  all  modern 
literature,  conversation,  and  manners. 

The  second  point  of  view,  and  by  far  the  largest  —  as  the  world 
in  working-day  dress  vastly  exceeds  the  world  in  parlor  toilette — is 
the  one  of  common  life,  from  the  oldest  times  down,  and  especially  in 
England,  (see  the  earlier  chapters  of  "Taine's  English  Literature," 
and  see  Shakspere  almost  anywhere,)  and  which  our  age  to-day 
inherits  from  riant  stock,  in  the  wit,  or  what  passes  for  wit,  of 
masculine  circles,  and  in  erotic  stories  and  talk,  to  excite,  express, 
and  dwell  on,  that  merely  sensual  voluptuousness  which,  according  to 
Victor  Hugo,  is  the  most  universal  trait  of  all  ages,  all  lands.  This 
second  condition,  however  bad,  is  at  any  rate  like  a  disease  which 
comes  to  the  surface,  and  therefore  less  dangerous  than  a  conceal'd  one. 

The  time  seems  to  me  to  have  arrived,  and  America  to  be  the 
place,  for  a  new  departure  —  a  third  point  of  view.  The  same  free 
dom  and  faith  and  earnestness  which,  after  centuries  of  denial,  struggle, 
repression,  and  martyrdom,  the  present  day  brings  to  the  treatment  of 
politics  and  religion,  must  work  out  a  plan  and  standard  on  this  subject, 
not  so  much  for  what  is  call'd  society,  as  for  thoughtfulest  men  and 
women,  and  thoughtfulest  literature.  The  same  spirit  that  marks  the 
physiological  author  and  demonstrator  on  these  topics  in  his  important 
field,  I  have  thought  necessary  to  be  exemplified,  for  once,  in  another 
certainly  not  less  important  field. 

In  the  present  memorandum  I  only  venture  to  indicate  that  plan 
and  view  —  decided  upon  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  for  my  own 
literary  action,  and  formulated  tangibly  in  my  printed  poems —  (as 
Bacon  says  an  abstract  thought  or  theory  is  of  no  moment  unless  it 
leads  to  a  deed  or  work  done,  exemplifying  it  in  the  concrete)  — that 
the  sexual  passion  in  itself,  while  normal  and  unperverted,  is  inherently 
legitimate,  creditable,  not  necessarily  an  improper  theme  for  poet,  as 


298  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

confessedly  not  for  scientist  —  that,  with  reference  to  the  whole  con 
struction,  organism,  and  intentions  of  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  anything 
short  of  confronting  that  theme,  and  making  myself  clear  upon  it,  as 
the  enclosing  basis  of  everything,  (as  the  sanity  of  everything  was  to 
be  the  atmosphere  of  the  poems,)  I  should  beg  the  question  in  its 
most  momentous  aspect,  and  the  superstructure  that  follow' d,  preten- 
sive  as  it  might  assume  to  be,  would  all  rest  on  a  poor  foundation,  or 
no  foundation  at  all.  In  short,  as  the  assumption  of  the  sanity  of 
birth,  Nature  and  humanity,  is  the  key  to  any  true  theory  of  life  and 
the  universe  — at  any  rate,  the  only  theory  out  of  which  I  wrote  — it 
is,  and  must  inevitably  be,  the  only  key  to  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  and 
every  part  of  it.  That,  (and  not  a  vain  consistency  or  weak  pride, 
as  a  late  "  Springfield  Republican"  charges,)  is  the  reason  that  I 
have  stood  out  for  these  particular  verses  uncompromisingly  for  over 
twenty  years,  and  maintain  them  to  this  day.  That  is  what  I  felt  in 
my  inmost  brain  and  heart,  when  I  only  answer' d  Emerson's  vehement 
arguments  with  silence,  under  the  old  elms  of  Boston  Common. 

Indeed,  might  not  every  physiologist  and  every  good  physician  pray 
for  the  redeeming  of  this  subject  from  its  hitherto  relegation  to  the 
tongues  and  pens  of  blackguards,  and  boldly  putting  it  for  once  at  least, 
if  no  more,  in  the  demesne  of  poetry  and  sanity — as  something  not  in 
itself  gross  or  impure,  but  entirely  consistent  with  highest  manhood 
and  womanhood,  and  indispensable  to  both  ?  Might  not  only  every  wife 
and  every  mother  —  not  only  every  babe  that  comes  into  the  world,  if 
that  were  possible  — not  only  all  marriage,  the  foundation  and  sine  qua 
non  of  the  civilized  state  —  bless  and  thank  the  showing,  or  taking  for 
granted,  that  motherhood,  fatherhood,  sexuality,  and  all  that  belongs 
to  them,  can  be  asserted,  where  it  comes  to  question,  openly,  joyously, 
proudly,  "without  shame  or  the  need  of  shame,"  from  the  highest  artistic 
and  human  considerations  —  but,  with  reverence  be  it  written,  on  such 
attempt  to  justify  the  base  and  start  of  the  whole  divine  scheme  in 
humanity,  might  not  the  Creative  Power  itself  deign  a  smile  of  approval  ? 

To  the  movement  for  the  eligibility  and  entrance  of  women  amid 
new  spheres  of  business,  politics,  and  the  suffrage,  the  current  prurient, 
conventional  treatment  of  sex  is  the  main  formidable  obstacle.  The 
rising  tide  of  "woman's  rights,"  swelling  and  every  year  advancing 
farther  and  farther,  recoils  from  it  with  dismay.  There  will  in  my 
opinion  be  no  general  progress  in  such  eligibility  till  a  sensible,  philo 
sophic,  democratic  method  is  substituted. 

The  whole  question  —  which  strikes  far,  very  far  deeper  than  most 
people  have  supposed,  (and  doubtless,  too,  something  is  to  be  said  on 
all  sides,)  is  peculiarly  an  important  one  in  art — is  first  an  ethic,  and 
then  still  more  an  esthetic  one.  I  condense  from  a  paper  read  not 
long  since  at  Cheltenham,  England,  before  the  "Social  Science 


COLLECT  299 

Congress,"  to  the  Art  Department,  by  P.  H.  Rathbone  of  Liverpool, 
on  the  "  Undraped  Figure  in  Art,"  and  the  discussion  that  follow* d: 

"When  coward  Europe  suffer' d  the  unclean  Turk  to  soil  the  sacred 
shores  of  Greece  by  his  polluting  presence,  civilization  and  morality  receiv'd 
a  blow  from  which  they  have  never  entirely  recover' d,  and  the  trail  of  the 
serpent  has  been  over  European  art  and  European  society  ever  since.      The 
Turk   regarded  and   regards  women  as  animals  without   soul,  toys   to   be 
play'd  with  or  broken  at  pleasure,  and  to  be   hidden,  partly  from  shame, 
but  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  stimulating  exhausted  passion.      Such  is  the 
unholy  origin  of  the  objection  to  the  nude  as  a  fit  subject  for  art  ;  it  is  purely 
Asiatic,  and  though  not  introduced  for  the  first  time  in  the  fifteenth  cen 
tury,  is  yet  to  be  traced  to  the  source  of  all  impurity  —  the  East.     Although 
the  source  of  the  prejudice   is   thoroughly  unhealthy  and   impure,  yet  it  is 
now   shared  by  many  pure-minded  and  honest,  if  somewhat  uneducated, 
people.      But  I  am  prepared  to  maintain  that  it  is  necessary  for  the  future 
of  English  art  and  of  English  morality  that  the  right  of  the  nude  to  a  place 
in  our  galleries  should  be  boldly  asserted  j  it  must,  however,  be  the  nude  as 
represented   by  thoroughly  trained  artists,  and  with  a  pure  and  noble  ethic 
purpose.      The  human  form,  male  and  female,  is  the  type  and  standard  of 
all  beauty  of  form   and  proportion,  and  it   is  necessary  to  be  thoroughly 
familiar  with  it  in  order  safely  to  judge  of  all  beauty  which  consists  of  form 
and  proportion.      To  women  it  is  most  necessary  that  they  should  become 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  knowledge  of  the  ideal  female  form,  in  order 
that  they  should  recognize  the  perfection  of  it  at  once,  and  without  effort, 
and  so  far  as  possible  avoid  deviations  from  the  ideal.      Had  this  been  the 
case  in  times  past,  we  should  not  have  had  to  deplore  the  distortions  effected 
by  tight-lacing,   which   destroy' d  the  figure  and   ruin'd  the   health  of  so 
many  of  the   last  generation.      Nor  should  we  have  had  the    scandalous 
dresses  alike  of  society  and  the  stage.      The  extreme  development  of  the 
low  dresses  which  obtain' d  some  years  ago,  when  the  stays  crush' d  up  the 
breasts  into  suggestive  prominence,  would  surely  have  been   check' d,  had 
the  eye  of  the  public  been  properly  educated  by  familiarity  with  the  exqui 
site  beauty  of  line  of  a  well-shaped  bust.      I   might  show  how  thorough 
acquaintance  with  the  ideal  nude  foot  would  probably  have  much  modified 
the  foot-torturing  boots  and  high  heels,  which  wring  the  foot  out  of  all  beauty 
of  line,  and  throw  the  body  forward  into  an  awkward  and  ungainly  attitude. 
"It  is  argued   that  the  effect  of  nude  representation  of  women  upon 
young   men  is  unwholesome,  but  it  would  not  be  so  if  such  works  were 
admitted    without    question    into   our  galleries,    and    became   thoroughly 
familiar  to  them.      On  the  contrary,  it  would  do  much  to  clear  away  from 
healthy-hearted  lads  one  of  their  sorest  trials  —  that  prurient  curiosity  which 
is  bred  of  prudish  concealment.      Where  there  is  mystery  there  is  the  sug 
gestion  of  evil,  and  to  go  to  a  theatre,  where  you  have  only  to  look  at  the 
stalls  to  see  one-half  of  the  female  form,  and  to  the  stage  to  see  the  other 
half  undraped,  is  far  more  pregnant  with  evil  imaginings  than  the  most  ob 
jectionable  of  totally  undraped  figures.      In   French  art  there   have  been 
questionable  nude  figures  exhibited  ;  but  the  fault  was  not  that  they  were 
nude,  but  that  they  were  the  portraits  of  ugly  immodest  women," 


3oo  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Some  discussion  followed.  There  was  a  general  concurrence  in  the 
principle  contended  for  by  the  reader  of  the  paper.  Sir  Walter  Stirling 
maintain' d  that  the  perfect  male  figure,  rather  than  the  female,  was  the 
model  of  beauty.  After  a  few  remarks  from  Rev.  Mr.  Roberts  and  Colonel 
Oldfield,  the  Chairman  regretted  that  no  opponent  of  nude  figures  had 
taken  part  in  the  discussion.  He  agreed  with  Sir  Walter  Stirling  as  to  the 
male  figure  being  the  most  perfect  model  of  proportion.  He  join' d  in  de 
fending  the  exhibition  of  nude  figures,  but  thought  considerable  supervision 
should  be  exercis'd  over  such  exhibitions. 

No,  it  is  not  the  picture  or  nude  statue  or  text,  with  clear  aim,  that 
is  indecent  ;  it  is  the  beholder's  own  thought,  inference,  distorted  con 
struction.  True  modesty  is  one  of  the  most  precious  of  attributes, 
even  virtues,  but  in  nothing  is  there  more  pretense,  more  falsity,  than 
the  needless  assumption  of  it.  Through  precept  and  consciousness, 
man  has  long  enough  realized  how  bad  he  is.  I  would  not  so  much 
disturb  or  demolish  that  conviction,  only  to  resume  and  keep  unerr 
ingly  with  it  the  spinal  meaning  of  the  Scriptural  text,  God  overlooked 
all  that  He  bad  made,  (including  the  apex  of  the  whole  —  humanity 
—  with  its  elements,  passions,  appetites,)  and  behold,  it  was  very 


Does  not  anything  short  of  that  third  point  of  view,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it  profoundly  and  with  amplitude,  impugn  Creation 
from  the  outset  ?  In  fact,  however  overlaid,  or  unaware  of  itself, 
does  not  the  conviction  involv'd  in  it  perennially  exist  at  the  centre 
of  all  society,  and  of  the  sexes,  and  of  marriage  ?  Is  it  not  really  an 
intuition  of  the  human  race  ?  For,  old  as  the  world  is,  and  beyond 
statement  as  are  the  countless  and  splendid  results  of  its  culture  and 
evolution,  perhaps  the  best  and  earliest  and  purest  intuitions  of  the 
human  race  have  yet  to  be  develop'd. 


DEATH     OF    ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

LECTURE  deliver* d  in  New   York,  April  14,  1879 — in  Philadelphia, 
*8o  —  in  Boston,    81 


How  often  since  that  dark  and  dripping  Saturday  —  that  chilly 
April  day,  now  fifteen  years  bygone  —  my  heart  has  entertain*  d  the 
dream,  the  wish,  to  give  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  death,  its  own  special 
thought  and  memorial.  Yet  now  the  sought-for  opportunity  offers,  I 
find  my  notes  incompetent,  (why,  for  truly  profound  themes,  is 
statement  so  idle?  why  does  the  right  phrase  never  offer?)  and  the  fit 
tribute  I  dream' d  of,  waits  unprepared  as  ever.  My  talk  here  indeed 
is  less  because  of  itself  or  anything  in  it,  and  nearly  altogether  because 
I  feel  a  desire,  apart  from  any  talk,  to  specify  the  day,  the  martyrdom. 
It  is  for  this,  my  friends,  I  have  call'd  you  together.  Oft  as  the 
rolling  years  bring  back  this  hour,  let  it  again,  however  briefly,  be 
dwelt  upon.  For  my  own  part,  I  hope  and  desire,  till  my  own 
dying  day,  whenever  the  I4th  or  I5th  of  April  comes,  to  annually 
gather  a  few  friends,  and  hold  its  tragic  reminiscence.  No  narrow  or 
sectional  reminiscence.  It  belongs  to  these  States  in  their  entirety  — 
not  the  North  only,  but  the  South  —  perhaps  belongs  most  tenderly 
and  devoutly  to  the  South,  of  all;  for  there,  really,  this  man's  birth- 
stock.  There  and  thence  his  antecedent  stamp.  Why  should  I  not 
say  that  thence  his  manliest  traits  —  his  universality  —  his  canny,  easy 
ways  and  words  upon  the  surface  —  his  inflexible  determination  and 
courage  at  heart  ?  Have  you  never  realized  it,  my  friends,  that 
Lincoln,  though  grafted  on  the  West,  is  essentially,  in  personnel  and 
character,  a  Southern  contribution  ? 

And  though  by  no  means  proposing  to  resume  the  secession  war  to 
night,  I  would  briefly  remind  you  of  the  public  conditions  preceding 
that  contest.  For  twenty  years,  and  especially  during  the  four  or  five 
before  the  war  actually  began,  the  aspect  of  affairs  in  the  United 
States,  though  without  the  flash  of  military  excitement,  presents  more 
than  the  survey  of  a  battle,  or  any  extended  campaign,  or  series,  even 


302  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

of  Nature's  convulsions.  The  hot  passions  of  the  South  —  the 
strange  mixture  at  the  North  of  inertia,  incredulity,  and  conscious 
power  —  the  incendiarism  of  the  abolitionists  —  the  rascality  and  grip 
of  the  politicians,  unparallePdin  any  land,  any  age.  To  these  I  must 
not  omit  adding  the  honesty  of  the  essential  bulk  of  the  people  every 
where —  yet  with  all  the  seething  fury  and  contradiction  of  their 
natures  more  arous'd  than  the  Atlantic's  waves  in  wildest  equinox. 
In  politics,  what  can  be  more  ominous,  (though  generally  unappre 
ciated  then)  —  what  more  significant  than  the  Presidentiads  of  Fill- 
more  and  Buchanan?  proving  conclusively  that  the  weakness  and 
wickedness  of  elected  rulers  are  just  as  likely  to  afflict  us  here,  as  in 
the  countries  of  the  Old  World,  under  their  monarchies,  emperors, 
and  aristocracies.  In  that  Old  World  were  everywhere  heard  under 
ground  rumblings,  that  died  out,  only  to  again  surely  return.  While 
in  America  the  volcano,  though  civic  yet,  continued  to  grow  more 
and  more  convulsive  —  more  and  more  stormy  and  threatening. 

In  the  height  of  all  this  excitement  and  chaos,  hovering  on  the 
edge  at  first,  and  then  merged  in  its  very  midst,  and  destined  to  play 
a  leading  part,  appears  a  strange  and  awkward  figure.  I  shall  not 
easily  forget  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  Abraham  Lincoln.  It  must 
have  been  about  the  i8th  or  I9th  of  February,  1861.  It  was  rather 
a  pleasant  afternoon,  in  New  York  city,  as  he  arrived  there  from  the 
West,  to  remain  a  few  hours,  and  then  pass  on  to  Washington,  to 
prepare  for  his  inauguration.  I  saw  him  in  Broadway,  near  the  site 
of  the  present  Post-office.  He  came  down,  I  think  from  Canal 
street,  to  stop  at  the  Astor  House.  The  broad  spaces,  sidewalks,  and 
street  in  the  neighborhood,  and  for  some  distance,  were  crowded 
with  solid  masses  of  people,  many  thousands.  The  omnibuses  and 
other  vehicles  had  all  been  turn'd  off,  leaving  an  unusual  hush  in  that 
busy  part  of  the  city.  Presently  two  or  three  shabby  hack  barouches 
made  their  way  with  some  difficulty  through  the  crowd,  and  drew 
up  at  the  Astor  House  entrance.  A  tall  figure  stepp'd  out  of  the 
centre  of  these  barouches,  paus'd  leisurely  on  the  sidewalk,  look'd  up 
at  the  granite  walls  and  looming  architecture  of  the  grand  old  hotel 
—  then,  after  a  relieving  stretch  of  arms  and  legs,  turn'd  round  for 
over  a  minute  to  slowly  and  good-humoredly  scan  the  appearance  of 
the  vast  and  silent  crowds.  There  were  no  speeches — no  compli 
ments — no  welcome  —  as  far  as  I  could  hear,  not  a  word  said. 
Still  much  anxiety  was  conceal' d  in  that  quiet.  Cautious  persons  had 
fear'd  some  mark'd  insult  or  indignity  to  the  President-elect  —  for  he 
possess' d  no  personal  popularity  at  all  in  New  York  city,  and  very 
little  political.  But  it  was  evidently  tacitly  agreed  that  if  the  few 
political  supporters  of  Mr.  Lincoln  present  would  entirely  abstain 
from  any  demonstration  on  their  side,  the  immense  majority,  who 


COLLECT  303 

were  anything  but  supporters,  would  abstain  on  their  side  also.  The 
result  was  a  sulky,  unbroken  silence,  such  as  certainly  never  before 
characterized  so  great  a  New  York  crowd. 

Almost  in  the  same  neighborhood  I  distinctly  remember' d  seeing 
Lafayette  on  his  visit  to  America  in  1825.  I  had  also  personally  seen 
and  heard,  various  years  afterward,  how  Andrew  Jackson,  Clay, 
Webster,  Hungarian  Kossuth,  Filibuster  Walker,  the  Prince  of  Wales 
on  his  visit,  and  other  celebres,  native  and  foreign,  had  been  welcomed 
there  —  all  that  indescribable  human  roar  and  magnetism,  unlike  any 
other  sound  in  the  universe  —  the  glad  exulting  thunder-shouts  of 
countless  unloos'd  throats  of  men  !  But  on  this  occasion,  not  a  voice 
—  not  a  sound.  From  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  (driven  up  one  side, 
close  by,  and  block' d  by  the  curbstone  and  the  crowds,)  I  had,  I  say, 
a  capital  view  of  it  all,  and  especially  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  his  look  and 
gait — his  perfect  composure  and  coolness — his  unusual  and  uncouth 
height,  his  dress  of  complete  black,  stovepipe  hat  push'd  back  on  the 
head,  dark-brown  complexion,  seam'd  and  wrinkled  yet  canny-looking 
face,  black,  bushy  head  of  hair,  disproportionately  long  neck,  and  his 
hands  held  behind  as  he  stood  observing  the  people.  He  look'd  with 
curiosity  upon  that  immense  sea  effaces,  and  the  sea  effaces  returned 
the  look  with  similar  curiosity.  In  both  there  was  a  dash  of  comedy, 
almost  farce,  such  as  Shakspere  puts  in  his  blackest  tragedies.  The 
crowd  that  hemm'd  around  consisted  I  should  think  of  thirty  to  forty 
thousand  men,  not  a  single  one  his  personal  friend  —  while  I  have 
no  doubt,  (so  frenzied  were  the  ferments  of  the  time,)  many  an 
assassin's  knife  and  pistol  lurk'd  in  hip  or  breast-pocket  there,  ready, 
soon  as  break  and  riot  came. 

But  no  break  or  riot  came.  The  tall  figure  gave  another  relieving 
stretch  or  two  of  arms  and  legs ;  then  with  moderate  pace,  and  ac 
companied  by  a  few  unknown-looking  persons,  ascended  the  portico- 
steps  of  the  Astor  House,  disappear' d  through  its  broad  entrance  — 
and  the  dumb-show  ended. 

I  saw  Abraham  Lincoln  often  the  four  years  following  that  date. 
He  changed  rapidly  and  much  during  his  Presidency  —  but  this 
scene,  and  him  in  it,  are  indelibly  stamp' d  upon  my  recollection. 
As  I  sat  on  the  top  of  my  omnibus,  and  had  a  good  view  of  him, 
the  thought,  dim  and  inchoate  then,  has  since  come  out  clear  enough, 
that  four  sorts  of  genius,  four  mighty  and  primal  hands,  will  be 
needed  to  the  complete  limning  of  this  man's  future  portrait — the 
eyes  and  brains  and  finger-touch  of  Plutarch  and  Eschylus  and 
Michel  Angelo,  assisted  by  Rabelais. 

And  now —  (Mr.  Lincoln  passing  on  from  this  scene  to  Wash 
ington,  where  he  was  inaugurated,  amid  armed  cavalry,  and  sharp 
shooters  at  every  point  —  the  first  instance  of  the  kind  in  our  history 
21 


3o4  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

—  and  I  hope  it  will  be   the   last)  —  now   the  rapid   succession   of 
well-known  events,  (too  well   known — I    believe,   these    days,   we 
almost  hate  to  hear  them  mention*  d)  — the  national  flag  fired  on  at 
Sumter  —  the  uprising  of  the  North,  in  paroxysms  of  astonishment 
and  rage  —  the  chaos  of  divided  councils  —  the  call  for  troops  —  the 
first  Bull  Run  —  the  stunning  cast-down,  shock,  and  dismay  of  the 
North  —  arid    so  in    full    flood    the  secession   war.     Four  years    of 
lurid,   bleeding,  murky,  murderous  war.      Who    paint   those    years, 
with  all  their  scenes? — the  hard-fought  engagements — the  defeats, 
plans,    failures  —  the    gloomy    hours,    days,    when    our    Nationality 
seem'd  hung  in  pall  of  doubt,  perhaps  death  —  the  Mephistophelean 
sneers  of  foreign  lands  and  attaches  —  the  dreaded  Scylla  of  European 
interference,  and  the  Charybdis  of  the  tremendously  dangerous  latent 
strata  of  secession  sympathizers  throughout  the  free  States,  (far  more 
numerous  than  is   supposed) — the  long  marches  in  summer  —  the 
hot  sweat,  and  many  a   sunstroke,  as  on  the  rush  to   Gettysburg  in 
'63 — the  night  battles  in  the  woods,  as  under  Hooker  at  Chancel- 
lorsville  —  the    camps   in   winter  —  the    military  prisons  —  the  hos 
pitals —  (alas  !  alas  !  the  hospitals.) 

The  secession  war  ?  Nay,  let  me  call  it  the  Union  war. 
Though  whatever  calPd,  it  is  even  yet  too  near  us  —  too  vast  and 
too  closely  overshadowing  —  its  branches  unform'd  yet,  (but  cer 
tain,)  shooting  too  far  into  the  future — and  the  most  indicative  and 
mightiest  of  them  yet  ungrown.  A  great  literature  will  yet  arise  out 
of  the  era  of  those  four  years,  those  scenes  —  era  compressing  cen 
turies  of  native  passion,  first-class  pictures,  tempests  of  life  and  death 

—  an  inexhaustible  mine  for  the  histories,  drama,  romance,  and  even 
philosophy,  of  peoples  to  come  —  indeed  the  verteber  of  poetry  and 
art,  (of  personal   character  too,) /or  all  future  America — far  more 
grand,  in  my  opinion,   to  the  hands  capable  of  it,  than   Homer's 
siege  of  Troy,  or  the  French  wars  to  Shakspere. 

But  I  must  leave  these  speculations,  and  come  to  the  theme  I  have 
assign' d  and  limited  myself  to.  Of  the  actual  murder  of  President 
Lincoln,  though  so  much  has  been  written,  probably  the  facts  are 
yet  very  indefinite  in  most  persons'  minds.  I  read  from  my  memo 
randa,  written  at  the  time,  and  revised  frequently  and  finally  since. 

The  day,  April  14,  1865,  seems  to  have  been  a  pleasant  one 
throughout  the  whole  land  —  the  moral  atmosphere  pleasant  too  — 
the  long  storm,  so  dark,  so  fratricidal,  full  of  blood  and  doubt  and 
gloom,  over  and  ended  at  last  by  the  sun-rise  of  such  an  absolute 
National  victory,  and  utter  break-down  of  Secessionism  —  we  almost 
doubted  our  own  senses  !  Lee  had  capitulated  beneath  the  apple- 
tree  of  Appornattox.  The  other  armies,  the  flanges  of  the  revolt, 
swiftly  follow' d.  And  could  it  really  be,  then?  Out  of  all  the 


COLLECT  305 

affairs  of  this  world  of  woe  and  failure  and  disorder,  was  there  really 
come  the  confirm' d,  unerring  sign  of  plan,  like  a  shaft  of  pure  light  — 
of  rightful  rule — of  God?  So  the  day,  as  I  say,  was  propitious. 
Early  herbage,  early  flowers,  were  out.  (I  remember  where  I  was 
stopping  at  the  time,  the  season  being  advanced,  there  were  many 
lilacs  in  full  bloom.  By  one  of  those  caprices  that  enter  and  give 
tinge  to  events  without  being  at  all  a  part  of  them,  I  find  myself 
always  reminded  of  the  great  tragedy  of  that  day  by  the  sight  and 
odor  of  these  blossoms.  It  never  fails. ) 

But  I  must  not  dwell  on  accessories.  The  deed  hastens.  The 
popular  afternoon  paper  of  Washington,  the  little  "Evening  Star," 
had  spatter' d  all  over  its  third  page,  divided  among  the  advertise 
ments  in  a  sensational  manner,  in  a  hundred  different  places,  The 
President  and  his  Lady  will  be  at  the  Theatre  this  evening.  .  .  . 
(Lincoln  was  fond  of  the  theatre.  I  have  myself  seen  him  there 
several  times.  I  remember  thinking  how  funny  it  was  that  he,  in 
some  respects  the  leading  actor  in  the  stormiest  drama  known  to  real 
history's  stage  through  centuries,  should  sit  there  and  be  so  com 
pletely  interested  and  absorb' d  in  those  human  jack-straws,  moving 
about  with  their  silly  little  gestures,  foreign  spirit,  and  flatulent  text.) 

On  this  occasion  the  theatre  was  crowded,  many  ladies  in  rich 
and  gay  costumes,  officers  in  their  uniforms,  many  well-known  citi 
zens,  young  folks,  the  usual  clusters  of  gas-lights,  the  usual  magnetism 
of  so  many  people,  cheerful,  with  perfumes,  music  of  violins  and 
flutes  —  (and  over  all,  and  saturating  all,  that  vast,  vague  wonder, 
Victory,  the  nation's  victory,  the  triumph  of  the  Union,  filling  the 
air,  the  thought,  the  sense,  with  exhilaration  more  than  all  music 
and  perfumes.) 

The  President  came  betimes,  and,  with  his  wife,  witness' d  the 
play  from  the  large  stage-boxes  of  the  second  tier,  two  thrown  into 
one,  and  profusely  drap'd  with  the  national  flag.  The  acts  and 
scenes  of  the  piece  —  one  of  those  singularly  written  compositions 
which  have  at  least  the  merit  of  giving  entire  relief  to  an  audience 
engaged  in  mental  action  or  business  excitements  and  cares  during  the 
day,  as  it  makes  not  the  slightest  call  on  either  the  moral,  emotional, 
esthetic,  or  spiritual  nature  —  a  piece,  ("Our  American  Cousin,") 
in  which,  among  other  characters,  so  call'd,  a  Yankee,  certainly  such 
a  one  as  was  never  seen,  or  the  least  like  it  ever  seen,  in  North 
America,  is  introduced  in  England,  with  a  varied  fol-de-rol  of  talk, 
plot,  scenery,  and  such  phantasmagoria  as  goes  to  make  up  a  modern 
popular  drama  —  had  progress' d  through  perhaps  a  couple  of  its  acts, 
when  in  the  midst  of  this  comedy,  or  non-such,  or  whatever  it  is  to  be 
call'd,  and  to  offset  it,  or  finish  it  out,  as  if  in  Nature's  and  the  great 
Muse's  mockery  of  those  poor  mimes,  came  interpolated  that  scene,  not 


306  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

really  or  exactly  to  be  described  at  all,  (for  on  the  many  hundreds 
who  were  there  it  seems  to  this  hour  to  have  left  a  passing  blur,  a 
dream,  a  blotch)  —  and  yet  partially  to  be  described  as  I  now  proceed 
to  give  it.  There  is  a  scene  in  the  play  representing  a  modern  parlor, 
in  which  two  unprecedented  English  ladies  are  inform' d  by  the  impos 
sible  Yankee  that  he  is  not  a  man  of  fortune,  and  therefore  undesirable 
for  marriage-catching  purposes;  after  which,  the  comments  being 
finish*  d,  the  dramatic  trio  make  exit,  leaving  the  stage  clear  for  a 
moment.  At  this  period  came  the  murder  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 
Great  as  all  its  manifold  train,  circling  round  it,  and  stretching  into 
the  future  for  many  a  century,  in  the  politics,  history,  art,  &c.,  of  the 
New  World,  in  point  of  fact  the  main  thing,  the  actual  murder,  tran 
spired  with  the  quiet  and  simplicity  of  any  commonest  occurrence  — 
the  bursting  of  a  bud  or  pod  in  the  growth  of  vegetation,  for  instance. 
Through  the  general  hum  following  the  stage  pause,  with  the  change 
of  positions,  came  the  muffled  sound  of  a  pistol-shot,  which  not  one- 
hundredth  part  of  the  audience  heard  at  the  time  —  and  yet  a 
moment's  hush  —  somehow,  surely,  a  vague  startled  thrill — and  then, 
through  the  ornamented,  draperied,  starr'd  and  striped  space- way  of 
the  President's  box,  a  sudden  figure,  a  man,  raises  himself  with  hands 
and  feet,  stands  a  moment  on  the  railing,  leaps  below  to  the  stage,  (a 
distance  of  perhaps  fourteen  or  fifteen  feet,)  falls  out  of  position,  catch 
ing  his  boot-heel  in  the  copious  drapery,  (the  American  flag,)  falls 
on  one  knee,  quickly  recovers  himself,  rises  as  if  nothing  had  happen' d, 
(he  really  sprains  his  ankle,  but  unfelt  then)  —  and  so  the  figure, 
Booth,  the  murderer,  dress*  d  in  plain  black  broadcloth,  bare-headed, 
with  full,  glossy,  raven  hair,  and  his  eyes  like  some  mad  animal's 
flashing  with  light  and  resolution,  yet  with  a  certain  strange  calmness, 
holds  aloft  in  one  hand  a  large  knife  —  walks  along  not  much  back 
from  the  footlights — turns  fully  toward  the  audience  his  face  of 
statuesque  beauty,  lit  by  those  basilisk  eyes,  flashing  with  desperation, 
perhaps  insanity  — -  launches  out  in  a  firm  and  steady  voice  the  words 
Sic  semper  tyrannis  —  and  then  walks  with  neither  slow  nor  very  rapid 
pace  diagonally  across  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  disappears.  (Had 
not  all  this  terrible  scene — making  the  mimic  ones  preposterous  — 
had  it  not  all  been  rehears' d,  in  blank,  by  Booth,  beforehand?) 

A  moment's  hush  —  a  scream  —  the  cry  of  murder  —  Mrs.  Lincoln 
leaning  out  of  the  box,  with  ashy  cheeks  and  lips,  with  involuntary 
cry,  pointing  to  the  retreating  figure,  He  has  kill* d  the  President. 
And  still  a  moment's  strange,  incredulous  suspense  —  and  then  the 
deluge !  —  then  that  mixture  of  horror,  noises,  uncertainty  —  (the 
sound,  somewhere  back,  of  a  horse's  hoofs  clattering  with  speed)  — 
the  people  burst  through  chairs  and  railings,  and  break  them  up  — 
there  is  inextricable  confusion  and  terror  —  women  faint  —  quite 


COLLECT  307 

feeble  persons  fall,   and  are   trampl'd  on  —  many  cries  of  agony  are 

heard the  broad  stage  suddenly  fills  to  suffocation  with  a  dense  and 

motley  crowd,  like  some  horrible  carnival  —  the  audience  rush  gener 
ally  upon  it,  at  least  the  strong  men  do  —  the  actors  and  actresses  are 
all  there  in  their  play-costumes  and  painted  faces,  with  mortal  fright 
showing  through  the  rouge — the  screams  and  calls,  confused  talk — 
redoubled,  trebled  —  two  or  three  manage  to  pass  up  water  from  the 
stage  to  the  President's  box— others  try  to  damber  up  —  &c.,  &c. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  the  soldiers  of  the  President's  guard,  with 
others,  suddenly  drawn  to  the  scene,  burst  in  —  (some  two  hundred 
altogether)  —  they  storm  the  house,  through  all  the  tiers,  especially 
the  upper  ones,  inflam'd  with  fury,  literally  charging  the  audience 
with  fix'd  bayonets,  muskets  and  pistols,  shouting  Clear  out!  clear 

out!  you  sons  of—    - Such  the  wild  scene,  or  a  suggestion 

of  it  rather,  inside  the  play-house  that  night. 

Outside,  too,  in  the  atmosphere  of  shock  and  craze,  crowds  of 
people,  fill'd  with  frenzy,  ready  to  seize  any  outlet  for  it,  come  near 
committing  murder  several  times  on  innocent  individuals.  One  such 
case  was  especially  exciting.  The  infuriated  crowd,  through  some 
chance,  got  started  against  one  man,  either  for  words  he  utter' d,  or 
perhaps  without  any  cause  at  all,  and  were  proceeding  at  once  to 
actually  hang  him  on  a  neighboring  lamp-post,  when  he  was  rescued 
by  a  few  heroic  policemen,  who  placed  him  in  their  midst,  and  fought 
their  way  slowly  and  amid  great  peril  toward  the  station  house.  It 
was  a  fitting  episode  of  the  whole  affair.  The  crowd  rushing  and 
eddying  to  and  fro — the  night,  the  yells,  the  pale  faces,  many 
frighten' d  people  trying  in  vain  to  extricate  themselves  —  the  attack' d 
man,  not  yet  freed  from  the  jaws  of  death,  looking  like  a  corpse  —  the 
silent,  resolute,  half-dozen  policemen,  with  no  weapons  but  their  little 
clubs,  yet  stern  and  steady  through  all  those  eddying  swarms  —  made 
a  fitting  side-scene  to  the  grand  tragedy  of  the  murder.  They  gain'd 
the  station  house  with  the  protected  man,  whom  they  placed  in 
security  for  the  night,  and  discharged  him  in  the  morning. 

And  in  the  midst  of  that  pandemonium,  infuriated  soldiers,  the 
audience  and  the  crowd,  the  stage,  and  all  its  actors  and  actresses,  its 
paint-pots,  spangles,  and  gas-lights  —  the  life  blood  from  those  veins, 
the  best  and  sweetest  of  the  land,  drips  slowly  down,  and  death's 
ooze  already  begins  its  little  bubbles  on  the  lips. 

Thus  the  visible  incidents  and  surroundings  of  Abraham  Lincoln's 
murder,  as  they  really  occur' d.  Thus  ended  the  attempted  secession 
of  these  States  ;  thus  the  four  years'  war.  But  the  main  things  come 
subtly  and  invisibly  afterward,  perhaps  long  afterward  —  neither  military, 
political,  nor  (great  as  those  are,)  historical.  I  say,  certain  secondary 
and  indirect  results,  out  of  the  tragedy  of  this  death,  are,  in  my  opinion, 


308  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

greatest.  Not  the  event  of  the  murder  itself.  Not  that  Mr.  Lincoln 
strings  the  principal  points  and  personages  of  the  period,  like  beads, 
upon  the  single  string  of  his  career.  Not  that  his  idiosyncrasy,  in  its 
sudden  appearance  and  disappearance,  stamps  this  Republic  with  a 
stamp  more  mark'd  and  enduring  than  any  yet  given  by  any  one  man 
—  (more  even  than  Washington's;) — but,  join'd  with  these,  the 
immeasurable  value  and  meaning  of  that  whole  tragedy  lies,  to  me,  in 
senses  finally  dearest  to  a  nation,  (and  here  all  our  own)  — the 
imaginative  and  artistic  senses  —  the  literary  and  dramatic  ones.  Not 
in  any  common  or  low  meaning  of  those  terms,  but  a  meaning  precious 
to  the  race,  and  to  every  age.  _A  long  and  varied  series  of  contradic 
tory  events  arrives  at  last  at  its  highest  poetic,  single,  central,  pictorial 
denouement.  The  whole  involved,  baffling,  multiform  whirl  of  the 
secession  period  comes  to  a  head,  and  is  gather' d  in  one  brief  flash  of 
lightning-illumination  —  one  simple,  fierce  deed.  Its  sharp  culmina 
tion,  and  as  it  were  solution,  of  so  many  bloody  and  angry  problems, 
illustrates  those  climax-moments  on  the  stage  of  universal  Time,  where 
the  historic  Muse  at  one  entrance,  and  the  tragic  Muse  at  the  other, 
suddenly  ringing  down  the  curtain,  close  an  immense  act  in  the  long 
drama  of  creative  thought,  and  give  it  radiation,  tableau,  stranger  than 
fiction.  Fit  radiation  —  fit  close!  How  the  imagination — how  the 
student  loves  these  things !  America,  too,  is  to  have  them.  For  not 
in  all  great  deaths,  nor  far  or  near  —  not  Caesar  in  the  Roman  senate- 
house,  or  Napoleon  passing  away  in  the  wild  night-storm  at  St. 
Helena  —  not  Paleologus,  falling,  desperately  fighting,  piled  over 
dozens  deep  with  Grecian  corpses  —  not  calm  old  Socrates,  drinking 
the  hemlock  —  outvies  that  terminus  of  the  secession  war,  in  one  man's 
life,  here  in  our  midst,  in  our  own  time  —  that  seal  of  the  emancipa 
tion  of  three  million  slaves — that  parturition  and  delivery  of  our  at 
last  really  free  Republic,  born  again,  henceforth  to  commence  its 
career  of  genuine  homogeneous  Union,  compact,  consistent  with 
itself. 

Nor  will  ever  future  American  Patriots  and  Unionists,  indifferently 
over  the  whole  land,  or  North  or  South,  find  a  better  moral  to  their 
lesson.  The  final  use  of  the  greatest  men  of  a  Nation  is,  after  all,  not 
with  reference  to  their  deeds  in  themselves,  or  their  direct  bearing  on 
their  times  or  lands.  The  final  use  of  a  heroic-eminent  life — espe 
cially  of  a  heroic-eminent  death — is  its  indirect  filtering  into  the  nation 
and  the  race,  and  to  give,  often  at  many  removes,  but  unerringly,  age 
after  age,  color  and  fibre  to  the  personalism  of  the  youth  and  maturity 
of  that  age,  and  of  mankind.  Then  there  is  a  cement  to  the  whole 
people,  subtler,  more  underlying,  than  any  thing  in  written  constitu 
tion,  or  courts  or  armies  —  namely,  the  cement  of  a  death  identified 
thoroughly  with  that  people,  at  its  head,  and  for  its  sake.  Strange, 


COLLECT  309 

(is  it  not  ?)  that  battles,  martyrs,  agonies,  blood,  even  assassination, 
should  so  condense  —  perhaps  only  really,  lastingly  condense — a 
Nationality. 

I  repeat  it — the  grand  deaths  of  the  race  — the  dramatic  deaths  of 
every  nationality  — are  its  most  important  inheritance-value — in  some 
respects  beyond  its  literature  and  art  —  (as  the  hero  is  beyond  his 
finest  portrait,  and  the  battle  itself  beyond  its  choicest  song  or  epic.) 
Is  not  here  indeed  the  point  underlying  all  tragedy  ?  the  famous  pieces 
of  the  Grecian  masters  —  and  all  masters?  Why,  if  the  old  Greeks 
had  had  this  man,  what  trilogies  of  plays  —  what  epics  —  would  have 
been  made  out  of  him  !  How  the  rhapsodes  would  have  recited  him  ! 
How  quickly  that  quaint  tall  form  would  have  enter' d  into  the  region 
where  men  vitalize  gods,  and  gods  divinify  men  !  But  Lincoln,  his 
times,  his  death  —  great  as  any,  any  age  —  belong  altogether  to  our 
own,  and  our  autochthonic.  (Sometimes  indeed  I  think  our  Ameri 
can  days,  our  own  stage  —  the  actors  we  know  and  have  shaken 
hands,  or  talk' d  with  —  more  fateful  than  anything  in  Eschylus  — 
more  heroic  than  the  fighters  around  Troy  —  afford  kings  of  men  for 
our  Democracy  prouder  than  Agamemnon  —  models  of  character  cute 
and  hardy  as  Ulysses  —  deaths  more  pitiful  than  Priam's.) 

When,  centuries  hence,  (as  it  must,  in  my  opinion,  be  centuries 
hence  before  the  life  of  these  States,  or  of  Democracy,  can  be  really 
written  and  illustrated,)  the  leading  historians  and  dramatists  seek  for 
some  personage,  some  special  event,  incisive  enough  to  mark  with 
deepest  cut,  and  mnemonize,  this  turbulent  Nineteenth  century  of 
ours,  (not  only  these  States,  but  all  over  the  political  and  social 
world) — something,  perhaps,  to  close  that  gorgeous  procession  of 
European  feudalism,  with  all  its  pomp  and  caste-prejudices,  (of  whose 
long  train  we  in  America  are  yet  so  inextricably  the  heirs)  —  some 
thing  to  identify  with  terrible  identification,  by  far  the  greatest 
revolutionary  step  in  the  history  of  the  United  States,  (perhaps  the 
greatest  of  the  world,  our  century) — the  absolute  extirpation  and 
erasure  of  slavery  from  the  States — those  historians  will  seek  in  vain 
for  any  point  to  serve  more  thoroughly  their  purpose,  than  Abraham 
Lincoln's  death. 

Dear  to   the  Muse  —  thrice    dear  to  Nationality  —  to  the   whole 
human  race  —  precious   to  this   Union — precious  to   Democracy  — 
unspeakably  and  forever  precious   —  their  first  great  Martyr  Chief. 


TWO    LETTERS 


i 

TO Camden,  N.   J.,    U.  S.   America,  March 

LONDON,  ENG-  i?tbt   1876.     DEAR  FRIEND:  — Yours  of 

LAND  the  2 8th  Feb.  receiv'd,  and  indeed  wel- 

com'd.      I  am  jogging  along  still  about  the 

same  in  physical  condition — still  certainly  no  worse,  and  I  sometimes 
lately  suspect  rather  better,  or  at  any  rate  more  adjusted  to  the  situation. 
Even  begin  to  think  of  making  some  move,  some  change  of  base,  &c. : 
the  doctors  have  been  advising  it  for  over  two  years,  but  I  haven't  felt 
to  do  it  yet.  My  paralysis  does  not  lift  —  I  cannot  walk  any  distance 
—  I  still  have  this  baffling,  obstinate,  apparently  chronic  affection  of 
the  stomachic  apparatus  and  liver:  yet  I  get  out  of  doors  a  little  every 
day — write  and  read  in  moderation — appetite  sufficiently  good — (eat 
only  very  plain  food,  but  always  did  that)  —  digestion  tolerable  — 
spirits  unflagging.  I  have  told  you  most  of  this  before,  but  suppose 
you  might  like  to  know  it  all  again,  up  to  date.  Of  course,  and  pretty 
darkly  coloring  the  whole,  are  bad  spells,  prostrations,  some  pretty 
grave  ones,  intervals  —  and  I  have  resign' d  myself  to  the  certainty  of 
permanent  incapacitation  from  solid  work:  but  things  may  continue  at 
least  in  this  half-and-half  way  for  months,  even  years. 

My  books  are  out,  the  new  edition;  a  set  of  which,  immediately 
on  receiving  your  letter  of  2 8th,  I  have  sent  you,  (by  mail,  March 
15,)  and  I  suppose  you  have  before  this  receiv'd  them.  My  dear 
friend,  your  offers  of  help,  and  those  of  my  other  British  friends,  I 
think  I  fully  appreciate,  in  the  right  spirit,  welcome  and  acceptive  — 
leaving  the  matter  altogether  in  your  and  their  hands,  and  to  your  and 
their  convenience,  discretion,  leisure,  and  nicety.  Though  poor  now, 
even  to  penury,  I  have  not  so  far  been  deprived  of  any  physical  thing 
I  need  or  wish  whatever,  and  I  feel  confident  I  shall  not  in  the  future. 
During  my  employment  of  seven  years  or  more  in  Washington  after 
the  war  (1865-' 7  2)  I  regularly  saved  part  of  my  wages:  and,  though 
the  sum  has  now  become  about  exhausted  by  my  expenses  of  the  last 


COLLECT  311 

three  years,  there  are  already  beginning  at  present  welcome  dribbles 
hitherward  from  the  sales  of  my  new  edition,  which  I  just  job  and  sell, 
myself,  (all  through  this  illness,  my  book-agents  for  three  years  in 
New  York  successively,  badly  cheated  me,)  and  shall  continue  to 
dispose  of  the  books  myself.  And  that  is  the  way  I  should  prefer 
to  glean  my  support.  In  that  way  I  cheerfully  accept  all  the  aid  my 
friends  find  it  convenient  to  proffer. 

To  repeat  a  little,  and  without  undertaking  details,  understand,  dear 
friend,  for  yourself  and  all,  that  I  heartily  and  most  affectionately 
thank  my  British  friends,  and  that  I  accept  their  sympathetic  generosity 
in  the  same  spirit  in  which  I  believe  (nay,  know)  it  is  offer' d  —  that 
(hough  poor  I  am  not  in  want  —  that  I  maintain  good  heart  and  cheer  ; 
and  that  by  far  the  most  satisfaction  to  me  (and  I  think  it  can  be  done, 
and  believe  it  will  be)  will  be  to  live,  as  long  as  possible,  on  the  sales, 
by  myself,  of  my  own  works,  and  perhaps,  if  practicable,  by  further 
writings  for  the  press.  W.  W. 

I  am  prohibited  from  writing  too  much,  and  I  must  make  this  candid 
statement  of  the  situation  serve  for  all  my  dear  friends  over  there. 

II 

TO Camden,  New  Jersey,  U.  S.  A.y  Dec.  20, 

DRESDEN,  SAXONY     '<?/.-  DEAR    SIR:  — Your    letter    asking 
definite    endorsement   to   your   translation 

of  my  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  into  Russian  is  just  received,  and  I  hasten 
to  answer  it.  Most  warmly  and  willingly  I  consent  to  the  translation, 
and  waft  a  prayerful  Goo'  speed  to  the  enterprise. 

You  Russians  and  we  Americans  !  Our  countries  so  distant,  so 
unlike  at  first  glance  —  such  a  difference  in  social  and  political  condi 
tions,  and  our  respective  methods  of  moral  and  practical  development 
the  last  hundred  years  ;  —  and  yet  in  certain  features,  and  vastest 
ones,  so  resembling  each  other.  The  variety  of  stock-elements  and 
tongues,  to  be  resolutely  fused  in  a  common  identity  and  union  at  all 
hazards — the  idea,  perennial  through  the  ages,  that  they  both  have 
their  historic  and  divine  mission  —  the  fervent  element  of  manly 
friendship  throughout  the  whole  people,  surpass' d  by  no  other  races  — 
the  grand  expanse  of  territorial  limits  and  boundaries —  the  unform'd 
and  nebulous  state  of  many  things,  not  yet  permanently  settled,  but 
agreed  on  all  hands  to  be  the  preparations  of  an  infinitely  greater  future 
—  the  fact  that  both  Peoples  have  their  independent  and  leading  posi 
tions  to  hold,  keep,  and  if  necessary,  fight  for,  against  the  rest  of  the 
world  —  the  deathless  aspirations  at  the  inmost  centre  of  each  great 
community,  so  vehement,  so  mysterious,  so  abysmic — are  certainly 
features  you  Russians  and  we  Americans  possess  in  common. 


312  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

As  my  dearest  dream  is  for  an  internationally  of  poems  and  poets, 
binding  the  lands  of  the  earth  closer  than  all  treaties  and  diplomacy 
—  as  the  purpose  beneath  the  rest  in  my  book  is  such  hearty  comrade 
ship,  for  individuals  to  begin  with,  and  for  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 
as  a  result  —  how  happy  I  should  be  to  get  the  hearing  and  emotional 
contact  of  the  great  Russian  peoples. 

To  whom,  now  and  here,  (addressing  you  for  Russia  and  Russians, 
and  empowering  you,  should  you  see  fit,  to  print  the  present  letter,  in 
your  book,  as  a  preface,)  I  waft  affectionate  salutation  from  these 
shores,  in  America's  name.  W.  W. 


NOTES    LEFT    OVER 


NATIONALITY —  IT  is  more  and  more  clear  to  me  that  the 
(AND  YET)  main  sustenance  for  highest  separate  per 

sonality,  these  States,  is  to  come  from  that 

general  sustenance  of  the  aggregate,  (as  air,  earth,  rains,  give  suste 
nance  to  a  tree)  —  and  that  such  personality,  by  democratic  standards, 
will  only  be  fully  coherent,  grand  and  free,  through  the  cohesion, 
grandeur  and  freedom  of  the  common  aggregate,  the  Union.  Thus 
the  existence  of  the  true  American  continental  solidarity  of  the  future, 
depending  on  myriads  of  superb,  large-sized,  emotional  and  physically 
perfect  individualities,  of  one  sex  just  as  much  as  the  other,  the  supply 
of  such  individualities,  in  my  opinion,  wholly  depends  on  a  compacted 
imperial  ensemble.  The  theory  and  practice  of  both  sovereignties, 
contradictory  as  they  are,  are  necessary.  As  the  centripetal  law  were 
fatal  alone,  or  the  centrifugal  law  deadly  and  destructive  alone,  but 
together  forming  the  law  of  eternal  kosmical  action,  evolution,  preser 
vation,  and  life  —  so,  by  itself  alone,  the  fullness  of  individuality, 
even  the  sanest,  would  surely  destroy  itself.  This  is  what  makes  the 
importance  to  the  identities  of  these  States  of  the  thoroughly  fused, 
relentless,  dominating  Union  —  a  moral  and  spiritual  idea,  subjecting 
all  the  parts  with  remorseless  power,  more  needed  by  American  democ 
racy  than  by  any  of  history's  hitherto  empires  or  feudalities,  and 
the  sine  qua  non  of  carrying  out  the  republican  principle  to  develop  itself 
in  the  New  World  through  hundreds,  thousands  of  years  to  come. 

Indeed,  what  most  needs  fostering  through  the  hundred  years  to 
come,  in  all  parts  of  the  United  States,  north,  south,  Mississippi 
valley,  and  Atlantic  and  Pacific  coasts,  is  this  fused  and  fervent  iden 
tity  of  the  individual,  whoever  he  or  she  may  be,  and  wherever  the 
place,  with  the  idea  and  fact  of  AMERICAN  TOTALITY,  and  with  what 
is  meant  by  the  Flag,  the  stars  and  stripes.  We  need  this  conviction 
of  nationality  as  a  faith,  to  be  absorbed  in  the  blood  and  belief  of  the 
people  everywhere,  south,  north,  west,  east,  to  emanate  in  their  life, 
and  in  native  literature  and  art.  We  want  the  germinal  idea  that 
America,  inheritor  of  the  past,  is  the  custodian  of  the  future  of  human- 


COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ity.  Judging  from  history,  it  is  some  such  moral  and  spiritual  ideas 
appropriate  to  them,  (and  such  ideas  only,)  that  have  made  the  pro- 
foundest  glory  and  endurance  of  nations  in  the  past.  The  races  of 
Judea,  the  classic  clusters  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  the  feudal  and 
ecclesiastical  clusters  of  the  Middle  Ages,  were  each  and  all  vitalized 
by  their  separate  distinctive  ideas,  ingrain' d  in  them,  redeeming  many 
sins,  and  indeed,  in  a  sense,  the  principal  reason-why  for  their  whole 
career. 

?Then,  in  the  thought  of  nationality  especially  for  the  United  States, 
and  making  them  original,  and  different  from  all  other  countries, 
another  point  ever  remains  to  be  considered.  There  are  two  distinct 
principles  —  aye,  paradoxes  —  at  the  life-fountain  and  life-continuation 
of  the  States ;  one,  the  sacred  principle  of  the  Union,  the  right  of 
ensemble,  at  whatever  sacrifice  —  and  yet  another,  an  equally  sacred 
principle,  the  right  of  each  State,  consider* d  as  a  separate  sovereign 
individual,  in  its  own  sphere.  Some  go  zealously  for  one  set  of  these 
rights,  and  some  as  zealously  for  the  other  set.  We  must  have  both  ; 
or  rather,  bred  out  of  them,  as  out  of  mother  and  father,  a  third  set, 
the  perennial  result  and  combination  of  both,  and  neither  jeopardized. 
I  say  the  loss  or  abdication  of  one  set,  in  the  future,  will  be  ruin  to 
democracy  just  as  much  as  the  loss  of  the  other  set.  The  problem  is, 
to  harmoniously  adjust  the  two,  and  the  play  of  the  two.  [Observe 
the  lesson  of  the  divinity  of  Nature,  ever  checking  the  excess  of  one 
law,  by  an  opposite,  or  seemingly  opposite  law  —  generally  the  other 
side  of  the  same  law.]  For  the  theory  of  this  Republic  is,  not  that 
the  General  government  is  the  fountain  of  all  life  and  power,  dispens 
ing  it  forth,  around,  and  to  the  remotest  portions  of  our  territory,  but 
that  THE  PEOPLE  are,  represented  in  both,  underlying  both  the  General 
and  State  governments,  and  consider' d  just  as  well  in  their  individual 
ities  and  in  their  separate  aggregates,  or  States,  as  consider' d  in  one 
vast  aggregate,  the  Union.  This  was  the  original  dual  theory  and 
foundation  of  the  United  States,  as  distinguish'^  from  the  feudal  and 
ecclesiastical  single  idea  of  monarchies  and  papacies,  and  the  divine 
right  of  kings.  (Kings  have  been  of  use,  hitherto,  as  representing  the 
idea  of  the  identity  of  nations.  But,  to  American  democracy,  both 
ideas  must  be  fulfill' d,  and  in  my  opinion  the  loss  of  vitality  of  either 
one  will  indeed  be  the  loss  of  vitality  of  the  other. ) 

EMERSON'S  BOOKS,     In  the  regions  we  call  Nature,  towering 

(THE  SHADOWS  beyond    all    measurement,     with    infinite 

OF  THEM)  spread,    infinite    depth   and   height  —  in 

those    regions,    including    Man,     socially 

and  historically,  with  his  moral-emotional  influences — how  small  a 
part,  (it  came  in  my  mind  to-day,)  has  literature  really  depicted  — 


COLLECT  315 

even  summing  up  all  of  it,  all  ages.  Seems  at  its  best  some  little  fleet 
of  boats,  hugging  the  shores  of  a  boundless  sea,  and  never  venturing, 
exploring  the  unmapp'd  —  never,  Columbus-like,  sailing  out  for  New 
Worlds,  and  to  complete  the  orb's  rondure.  Emerson  writes  fre 
quently  in  the  atmosphere  of  this  thought,  and  his  books  report  one 
or  two  things  from  that  very  ocean  and  air,  and  more  legibly  ad 
dress' d  to  our  age  and  American  polity  than  by  any  man  yet.  But  I 
will  begin  by  scarifying  him  —  thus  proving  that  I  am  not  insensible 
to  his  deepest  lessons.  I  will  consider  his  books  from  a  democratic 
and  western  point  of  view.  I  will  specify  the  shadows  on  these 
sunny  expanses.  Somebody  has  said  of  heroic  character  that  "wher 
ever  the  tallest  peaks  are  present,  must  inevitably  be  deep  chasms  and 
valleys."  Mine  be  the  ungracious  task  (for  reasons)  of  leaving  un- 
mendon'd  both  sunny  expanses  and  sky-reaching  heights,  to  dwell  on 
the  bare  spots  and  darknesses.  I  have  a  theory  that  no  artist  or  work 
of  the  very  first  class  may  be  or  can  be  without  them. 

First,  then,  these  pages  are  perhaps  too  perfect,  too  concentrated. 
(How  good,  for  instance,  is  good  butter,  good  sugar.  But  to  be 
eating  nothing  but  sugar  and  butter  all  the  time  !  even  if  ever  so 
good.)  And  though  the  author  has  much  to  say  of  freedom  and 
wildness  and  simplicity  and  spontaneity,  no  performance  was  ever 
more  based  on  artificial  scholarships  and  decorums  at  third  •>»  fourth 
removes,  (he  calls  it  culture,)  and  built  up  from  them.  It  is  always 
a  make,  never  an  unconscious  growth.  It  is  the  porcelain  figure  or 
statuette  of  lion,  or  stag,  or  Indian  hunter  —  and  a  very  choice  statu 
ette  too  —  appropriate  for  the  rosewood  or  marble  bracket  of  parlor 
or  library  ;  never  the  animal  itself,  or  the  hunter  himself.  Indeed, 
who  wants  the  real  animaj  or  hunter  ?  What  would  that  do  amid 
astral  and  bric-a-brac  and  tapestry,  and  ladies  and  gentlemen  talking 
in  subdued  tones  of  Browning  and  Longfellow  and  art  ?  The  least 
suspicion  of  such  actual  bull,  or  Indian,  or  of  Nature  carrying  out 
itself,  would  put  all  those  good  people  to  instant  terror  and  flight. 

Emerson,  in  my  opinion,  is  not  most  eminent  as  poet  or  artist  or 
teacher,  though  valuable  in  all  those.  He  is  best  as  critic,  or  diag- 
noser.  Not  passion  or  imagination  or  warp  or  weakness,  or  any 
pronounced  cause  or  specialty,  dominates  him.  Cold  and  bloodless 
intellectuality  dominates  him.  (I  know  the  fires,  emotions,  love, 
egotisms,  glow  deep,  perennial,  as  in  all  New  Englanders  —  but  the 
facade,  hides  them  well  —  they  give  no  sign.)  He  does  not  see  or 
take  one  side,  one  presentation  only  or  mainly,  (as  all  the  poets,  or 
most  of  the  fine  writers  anyhow)  — he  sees  all  sides.  His  final  influ 
ence  is  to  make  his  students  cease  to  worship  anything  —  almost  cease 
to  believe  in  anything,  outside  of  themselves.  These  books  will  fill, 
and  well  fill,  certain  stretches  of  life,  certain  stages  of  development  — 


3i6  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

are,  (like  the  tenets  or  theology  the  author  of  them  preach' d  when  a 
young  man,)  unspeakably  serviceable  and  precious  as  a  stage.  But  in 
old  or  nervous  or  solemnest  or  dying  hours,  when  one  needs  the  im- 
palpably  soothing  and  vitalizing  influences  of  abysmic  Nature,  or  its 
affinities  in  literature  or  human  society,  and  the  soul  resents  the  keenest 
mere  intellection,  they  will  not  be  sought  for. 

For  a  philosopher,  Emerson  possesses  a  singularly  dandified  theory 
of  manners.  He  seems  to  have  no  notion  at  all  that  manners  are 
simply  the  signs  by  which  the  chemist  or  metallurgist  knows  his  metals. 
To  the  profound  scientist,  all  metals  are  profound,  as  they  really  are. 
The  little  one,  like  the  conventional  world,  will  make  much  of  gold 
and  silver  only.  Then  to  the  real  artist  in  humanity,  what  are  called 
bad  manners  are  often  the  most  picturesque  and  significant  of  all. 
Suppose  these  books  becoming  absorbed,  the  permanent  chyle  of 
American  general  and  particular  character  —  what  a  well- wash' d  and 
grammatical,  but  bloodless  and  helpless,  race  we  should  turn  out !  No, 
no,  dear  friend  ;  though  the  States  want  scholars,  undoubtedly,  and 
perhaps  want  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  use  the  bath  frequently,  and 
never  laugh  loud,  or  talk  wrong,  they  don't  want  scholars,  or  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  at  the  expense  of  all  the  rest.  They  want  good 
farmers,  sailors,  mechanics,  clerks,  citizens  —  perfect  business  and 
social  relations  —  perfect  fathers  and  mothers.  If  we  could  only 
have  these,  or  their  approximations,  plenty  of  them,  fine  and  large 
and  sane  and  generous  and  patriotic,  they  might  make  their  verbs 
disagree  from  their  nominatives,  and  laugh  like  volleys  of  musketeers, 
if  they  should  please.  Of  course  these  are  not  all  America  wants, 
but  they  are  first  of  all  to  be  provided  on  a  large  scale.  And,  with 
tremendous  errors  and  escapades,  this,  substantially,  is  what  the  States 
seem  to  have  an  intuition  of,  and  to  be  mainly  aiming  at.  The  plan 
of  a  select  class,  superfined,  (demarcated  from  the  rest,)  the  plan  of" 
Old  World  lands  and  literatures,  is  not  so  objectionable  in  itself,  but 
because  it  chokes  the  true  plan  for  us,  and  indeed  is  death  to  it.  As 
to  such  special  class,  the  United  States  can  never  produce  any  equal  to 
the  splendid  show,  (far,  far  beyond  comparison  or  competition  here,) 
of  the  principal  European  nations,  both  in  the  past  and  at  the  present 
day.  But  an  immense  and  distinctive  commonalty  over  our  vast  and 
varied  area,  west  and  east,  south  and  north — in  fact,  for  the  first  time 
in  history,  a  great,  aggregated,  real  PEOPLE,  worthy  the  name,  and 
made  of  develop' d  heroic  individuals,  both  sexes  —  is  America's  prin 
cipal,  perhaps  only,  reason  for  being.  If  ever  accomplish' d,  it  will  be 
at  least  as  much,  (I  lately  think,  doubly  as  much,)  the  result  of  fit 
ting  and  democratic  sociologies,  literatures  and  arts  —  if  we  ever  get 
them  —  as  of  our  democratic  politics. 

At  times  it  has  been  doubtful  to  me  if  Emerson  really  knows  or  feels 


COLLECT  317 

what  Poetry  is  at  its  highest,  as  in  the  Bible,  for  instance,  or  Homer 
or  Shakspere.  I  see  he  covertly  or  plainly  likes  best  superb  verbal 
polish,  or  something  old  or  odd — Waller's  "  Go,  lovely  rose/'  or 
Lovelace's  lines  "to  Lucusta "  —  the  quaint  conceits  of  the  old 
French  bards,  and  the  like.  Of  power  he  seems  to  have  a  gentleman's 
admiration  —  but  in  his  inmost  heart  the  grandest  attribute  of  God  and 
Poets  is  always  subordinate  to  the  octaves,  conceits,  polite  kinks,  and 
verbs. 

The  reminiscence  that  years  ago  I  began  like  most  youngsters  to 
have  a  touch  (though  it  came  late,  and  was  only  on  the  surface)  of 
Emerson-on-the-brain  —  that  I  read  his  writings  reverently,  and  ad 
dress' d  him  in  print  as  "  Master,"  and  for  a  month  or  so  thought  of 
him  as  such  —  I  retain  not  only  with  composure,  but  positive  satisfac 
tion.  I  have  noticed  that  most  young  people  of  eager  minds  pass 
through  this  stage  of  exercise. 

The  best  part  of  Emersonianism  is,  it  breeds  the  giant  that  destroys 
itself.  Who  wants  to  be  any  man's  mere  follower?  lurks  behind 
every  page.  No  teacher  ever  taught,  that  has  so  provided  for  his 
pupil's  setting  up  independently  —  no  truer  evolutionist. 

VENTURES,   ON  AN     A    DIALOGUE—  One    party    says  —  We 

OLD    THEME  arrange    our    lives  —  even     the    best    and 

boldest  men  and  women  that  exist,  just  as 

much  as  the  most  limited  —  with  reference  to  what  society  conven 
tionally  rules  and  makes  right.  We  retire  to  our  rooms  for  freedom  ; 
to  undress,  bathe,  unloose  everything  in  freedom.  These,  and  much 
else,  would  not  be  proper  in  society. 

Other  party  answers —  Such  is  the  rule  of  society.  Not  always  so, 
and  considerable  exceptions  still  exist.  However,  it  must  be  called 
the  general  rule,  sanction' d  by  immemorial  usage,  and  will  probably 
always  remain  so. 

First  party  —  Why  not,  then,  respect  it  in  your  poems  ? 

Answer  —  One  reason,  and  to  me  a  profound  one,  is  that  the  soul 
of  a  man  or  woman  demands,  enjoys  compensation  in  the  highest  direc 
tions  for  this  very  restraint  of  himself  or  herself,  level' d  to  the  average, 
or  rather  mean,  low,  however  eternally  practical,  requirements  of 
society's  intercourse.  To  balance  this  indispensable  abnegation,  the 
free  minds  of  poets  relieve  themselves,  and  strengthen  and  enrich  man 
kind  with  free  flights  in  all  the  directions  not  tolerated  by  ordinary 
society. 

First  party  —  But  must  not  outrage  or  give  offence  to  it. 

Answer  —  No,  not  in  the  deepest  sense  —  and  do  not,  and  cannot. 
The  vast  averages  of  time  and  the  race  en  masse  settle  these  things. 
Only  understand  that  the  conventional  standards  and  laws  proper 


3i8  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

enough  for  ordinary  society  apply  neither  to  the  action  of  the  soul,  no»- 
its  poets.  In  fact  the  latter  know  no  laws  but  the  laws  of  themselves, 
planted  in  them  by  God,  and  are  themselves  the  last  standards  of  the  law, 
and  its  final  exponents  —  responsible  to  Him  directly,  and  not  at  all  to 
mere  etiquette.  Often  the  best  service  that  can  be  done  to  the  race,  is 
to  lift  the  veil,  at  least  for  a  time,  from  these  rules  and  fossil-etiquettes. 
NEW  POETRY  —  California,  Canada,  Texas  —  In  my  opinion  the 
time  has  arrived  to  essentially  break  down  the  barriers  of  form  be 
tween  prose  and  poetry.  I  say  the  latter  is  henceforth  to  win  and 
maintain  its  character  regardless  of  rhyme,  and  the  measurement- 
rules  of  iambic,  spondee,  dactyl,  &c.,  and  that  even  if  rhyme  and 
those  measurements  continue  to  furnish  the  medium  for  inferior  writers 
and  themes,  (especially  for  persiflage  and  the  comic,  as  there  seems 
henceforward,  to  the  perfect  taste,  something  inevitably  comic  in 
rhyme,  merely  in  itself,  and  anyhow,)  the  truest  and  greatest  Poetry, 
(while  subtly  and  necessarily  always  rhythmic,  and  distinguishable 
easily  enough,)  can  never  again,  in  the  English  language,  be  ex 
press' d  in  arbitrary  and  rhyming  metre,  any  more  than  the  greatest 
eloquence,  or  the  truest  power  and  passion.  While  admitting  that 
the  venerable  and  heavenly  forms  of  chiming  versification  have  in 
their  time  play'd  great  and  fitting  parts  —  that  the  pensive  complaint, 
the  ballads,  wars,  amours,  legends  of  Europe,  &c.,  have,  many  of 
them,  been  inimitably  render'din  rhyming  verse — that  there  have  been 
very  illustrious  poets  whose  shapes  the  mantle  of  such  verse  has  beau 
tifully  and  appropriately  envelopt  —  and  though  the  mantle  has  fallen, 
with  perhaps  added  beauty,  on  some  of  our  own  age  —  it  is,  not 
withstanding,  certain  to  me,  that  the  day  of  such  conventional  rhyme 
is  ended.  In  America,  at  any  rate,  and  as  a  medium  of  highest 
esthetic  practical  or  spiritual  expression,  present  or  future,  it  palpably 
fails,  and  must  fail,  to  serve.  The  Muse  ot  the  Prairies,  of  Cali 
fornia,  Canada,  Texas,  and  of  the  peaks  of  Colorado,  dismissing  the 
literary,  as  well  as  social  etiquette  of  over-sea  feudalism  and  caste, 
joyfully  enlarging,  adapting  itself  to  comprehend  the  size  of  the 
whole  people,  with  the  free  play,  emotions,  pride,  passions,  experi 
ences,  that  belong  to  them,  body  and  soul  —  to  the  general  globe, 
and  all  its  relations  in  astronomy,  as  the  savans  portray  them  to  us  — 
to  the  modern,  the  busy  Nineteenth  century,  (as  grandly  poetic  as 
any,  only  different,)  with  steamships,  railroads,  factories,  electric 
telegraphs,  cylinder  presses  —  to  the  thought  of  the  solidarity  of 
nations,  the  brotherhood  and  sisterhood  of  the  entire  earth  —  to  the 
dignity  and  heroism  of  the  practical  labor  of  farms,  factories,  foun 
dries,  workshops,  mines,  or  on  shipboard,  or  on  lakes  and  rivers  — 
resumes  that  other  medium  of  expression,  more  flexible,  more  eligible 
— •  soars  to  the  freer,  vast,  diviner  heaven  of  prose 


COLLECT  319 

Of  poems  of  the  third  or  fourth  class,  (perhaps  even  some  of  the 
second,)  it  makes  little  or  no  difference  who  writes  them — they  are 
good  enough  for  what  they  are  ;  nor  is  it  necessary  that  they  should 
be  actual  emanations  from  the  personality  and  life  of  the  writers. 
The  very  reverse  sometimes  gives  piquancy.  But  poems  of  the  first 
class,  (poems  of  the  depth,  as  distinguished  from  those  of  the  surface,) 
are  to  be  sternly  tallied  with  the  poets  themselves,  and  tried  by  them 
and  their  lives.  Who  wants  a  glorification  of  courage  and  manly 
defiance  from  a  coward  or  a  sneak  ?  —  a  ballad  of  benevolence  or 
chastity  from  some  rhyming  hunks,  or  lascivious,  glib  roue  ? 

In  these  States,  beyond  all  precedent,  poetry  will  have  to  do  with 
actual  facts,  with  the  concrete  States,  and  —  for  we  have  not  much 
more  than  begun  —  with  the  definitive  getting  into  shape  of  the 
Union.  Indeed  I  sometimes  think  //  alone  is  to  define  the  Union, 
(namely,  to  give  it  artistic  character,  spirituality,  dignity.)  What 
American  humanity  is  most  in  danger  of  is  an  overwhelming  pros 
perity,  "business"  worldliness,  materialism:  what  is  most  lacking, 
east,  west,  north,  south,  is  a  fervid  and  glowing  Nationality  and 
patriotism,  cohering  all  the  parts  into  one.  Who  may  fend  that 
danger,  and  fill  that  lack  in  the  future,  but  a  class  of  loftiest  poets  ? 

If  the  United  States  haven*  t  grown  poets,  on  any  scale  of  grandeur, 
it  is  certain  they  import,  print,  and  read  more  poetry  than  any  equal 
number  of  people  elsewhere  —  probably  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  combined. 

Poetry  (like  a  grand  personality)  is  a  growth  of  many  generations 
—  many  rare  combinations. 

To  have  great  poets,  there  must  be  great  audiences,  too. 

BRITISH  LITERA-          To  avoid  mistake,  I  would  say  that  I  not 
TURK  only   commend  the  study  of  this    litera 

ture,   but  wish  our  sources  of  supply  and 

comparison  vastly  enlarged.  American  students  may  well  derive  from 
all  former  lands  —  from  forenoon  Greece  and  Rome,  down  to  the 
perturb' d  mediaeval  times,  the  Crusades,  and  so  to  Italy,  the  German 
intellect — all  the  older  literatures,  and  all  the  newer  ones — from 
witty  and  warlike  France,  and  markedly,  and  in  many  ways,  and  at 
many  different  periods,  from  the  enterprise  and  soul  of  the  great  Spanish 
race  —  bearing  ourselves  always  courteous,  always  deferential,  indebted 
beyond  measure  to  the  mother-world,  to  all  its  nations  dead,  as  all 
its  nations  living  —  the  offspring,  this  America  of  ours,  the  daughter, 
not  by  any  means  of  the  British  isles  exclusively,  but  of  the  continent, 
and  all  continents.  Indeed,  it  is  time  we  should  realize  and  fully 
fructify  those  germs  we  also  hold  from  Italy,  France,  Spain,  espe 
cially  in  the  best  imaginative  productions  of  those  lands,  which  are, 
23 


320  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

in  many  ways,  loftier  and  subtler  than  the  English,  or  British,  and 
indispensable  to  complete  our  service,  proportions,  education,  remin 
iscences,  &c.  .  .  .  The  British  element  these  States  hold,  and  have 
always  held,  enormously  beyond  its  fit  proportions.  I  have  already 
spoken  of  Shakspere.  He  seems  to  me  of  astral  genius,  first  class, 
entirely  fit  for  feudalism.  His  contributions,  especially  to  the  liter 
ature  of  the  passions,  are  immense,  forever  dear  to  humanity  —  and 
his  name  is  always  to  be  reverenced  in  America.  But  there  is  much 
in  him  ever  offensive  to  democracy.  He  is  not  only  the  tally  of 
feudalism,  but  I  should  say  Shakspere  is  incarnated,  uncompromising 
feudalism,  in  literature.  Then  one  seems  to  detect  something  in  him 
—  I  hardly  know  how  to  describe  it  —  even  amid  the  dazzle  of  his 
genius ;  and,  in  inferior  manifestations,  it  is  found  in  nearly  all  lead 
ing  British  authors.  (Perhaps  we  will  have  to  import  the  words 
Snob,  Snobbish,  &c.,  after  all.)  While  of  the  great  poems  of  Asian 
antiquity,  the  Indian  epics,  the  book  of  Job,  the  Ionian  Iliad,  the 
unsurpassedly  simple,  loving,  perfect  idyls  of  the  life  and  death  of 
Christ,  in  the  New  Testament,  (indeed  Homer  and  the  Biblical 
utterances  intertwine  familiarly  with  us,  in  the  main,)  and  along 
down,  of  most  of  the  characteristic,  imaginative  or  romantic  relics  of 
the  continent,  as  the  Cid,  Cervantes'  Don  Quixote,  &c.,  I  should 
say  they  substantially  adjust  themselves  to  us,  and,  far  off"  as  they 
are,  accord  curiously  with  our  bed  and  board  to-day,  in  New  York, 
Washington,  Canada,  Ohio,  Texas,  California — and  with  our  no 
tions,  both  of  seriousness  and  of  fun,  and  our  standards  of  heroism, 
manliness,  and  even  the  democratic  requirements — those  require 
ments  are  not  only  not  fulfill' d  in  the  Shaksperean  productions,  but 
are  insulted  on  every  page. 

I  add  that  —  while  England  is  among  the  greatest  of  lands  in  politi 
cal  freedom,  or  the  idea  of  it,  and  in  stalwart  personal  character,  &c. 
—  the  spirit  of  English  literature  is  not  great,  at  least  is  not  greatest — 
and  its  products  are  no  models  for  us.  With  the  exception  of  Shaks 
pere,  there  is  no  first-class  genius  in  that  literature  —  which,  with  a 
truly  vast  amount  of  value,  and  of  artificial  beauty,  (largely  from  the 
classics,)  is  almost  always  material,  sensual,  not  spiritual  —  almost 
always  congests,  makes  plethoric,  not  frees,  expands,  dilates  —  is 
cold,  anti-democratic,  loves  to  be  sluggish  and  stately,  and  shows 
much  of  that  characteristic  of  vulgar  persons,  the  dread  of  saying  or 
doing  something  not  at  all  improper  in  itself,  but  unconventional,  and 
that  may  be  laugh' d  at.  In  its  best,  the  sombre  pervades  it ;  it  is 
moody,  melancholy,  and,  to  give  it  its  due,  expresses,  in  characters 
and  plots,  those  qualities,  in  an  unrival'd  manner.  Yet  not  as  the 
black  thunder-storms,  and  in  great  normal,  crashing  passions,  of  the 
Greek  dramatists  —  clearing  the  air,  refreshing  afterward,  bracing  with 


COLLECT  321 

power  ;  but  as  in  Hamlet,  moping,  sick,  uncertain,  and  leaving  ever 
after  a  secret  taste  for  the  blues,  the  morbid  fascination,  the  luxury  oi 

wo.   ...  c  . 

I  strongly  recommend  all  the  young  men  and  young  women  of  the 
United  States  to  whom  it  may  be  eligible,  to  overhaul  the  well-freighted 
fleets,  the  literatures  of  Italy,  Spain,  France,  Germany,  so  full  of  those 
elements  of  freedom,  self-possession,  gay-heartedness,  subtlety,  dilation, 
needed  in  preparations  for  the  future  of  the  States.  I  only  wish  we 
could  have  really  good  translations.  I  rejoice  at  the  feeling  for  Oriental 
researches  and  poetry,  and  hope  it  will  go  on. 

DARWINISM —  Running  through  prehistoric  ages  —  com- 

(THEN  FURTHER-  ing  down  from  them  into  the  daybreak^of 
MORE)  our  records,  founding  theology,  suffusing 

literature,   and    so   brought  onward —  (a 

sort  of  verteber  and  marrow  to  all  the  antique  races  and  lands,  Egypt, 
India,  Greece,  Rome,  the  Chinese,  the  Jews,  &c.,  and  giving  cast  and 
complexion  to  their  art,  poems,  and  their  politics  as  well  as  ecclesiasti- 
cism,  all  of  which  we  more  or  less  inherit,)  appear  those  venerable 
claims  to  origin  from  God  himself,  or  from  gods  and  goddesses - 
ancestry  from  divine  beings  of  vaster  beauty,  size,  and  power  than 
ours.  But  in  current  and  latest  times,  the  theory  of  human  origin  that 
seems  to  have  most  made  its  mark,  (curiously  reversing  the  antique,) 
is  that  we  have  come  on,  originated,  developt,  from  monkeys,  baboons 

a  theory  more   significant  perhaps  in  its  indirections,   or  what  it 

necessitates,  than  it  is  even  in  itself.  (Of  the  twain,  far  apart  as  they 
seem,  and  angrily  as  their  conflicting  advocates  to-day  oppose  each 
other,  are  not  both  theories  to  be  possibly  reconcil'd,  and  even 
blended  ?  Can  we,  indeed,  spare  either  of  them  ?  Better  still,  out 
of  them  is  not  a  third  theory,  the  real  one,  or  suggesting  the  real  one, 
to  arise  ?) 

Of  this  old  theory,  evolution,  as  broach' d  anew,  trebled,  with 
indeed  all-devouring  claims,  by  Darwin,  it  has  so  much  in  it,  and  is 
so  needed  as  a  counterpoise  to  yet  widely  prevailing  and  unspeakably 
tenacious,  enfeebling  superstitions  —  is  fused,  by  the  new  man,  into 
such  grand,  modest,  truly  scientific  accompaniments  —  that  the  world 
of  erudition,  both  moral  and  physical,  cannot  but  be  eventually  better  d 
and  broaden'd  in  its  speculations,  from  the  advent  of  Darwinism. 
Nevertheless,  the  problem  of  origins,  human  and  other,  is  not  the 
least  whit  nearer  its  solution.  In  due  time  the  Evolution  theory  will 
have  to  abate  its  vehemence,  cannot  be  allow' d  to  dominate  every 
thing  else,  and  will  have  to  take  its  place  as  a  segment  of  the  circle, 
the  cluster  — as  but  one  of  many  theories,  many  thoughts,  of  pro- 
foundest  value— and  re-adjusting  and  differentiating  much,  yet  leaving 


322  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  divine  secrets  just  as  inexplicable  and  unreachable  as  before — may 
be  more  so. 

Then  furthermore — What  is  finally  to  be  done  by  priest  or  poet — 
and  by  priest  or  poet  only  —  amid  all  the  stupendous  and  dazzling 
novelties  of  our  century,  with  the  advent  of  America,  and  of  science 
and  democracy  —  remains  just  as  indispensable,  after  all  the  work  of 
the  grand  astronomers,  chemists,  linguists,  historians,  and  explorers 
of  the  last  hundred  years  —  and  the  wondrous  German  and  other 
metaphysicians  of  that  time  —  and  will  continue  to  remain,  needed, 
America  and  here,  just  the  same  as  in  the  world  of  Europe,  or  Asia, 
of  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand,  or  several  thousand  years  ago.  I  think 
indeed  more  needed,  to  furnish  statements  from  the  present  points,  the 
added  arriere,  and  the  unspeakably  immenser  vistas  of  to-day.  Only 
the  priests  and  poets  of  the  modern,  at  least  as  exalted  as  any  in  the 
past,  fully  absorbing  and  appreciating  the  results  of  the  past,  in  the 
commonalty  of  all  humanity,  all  time,  (the  main  results  already,  for 
there  is  perhaps  nothing  more,  or  at  any  rate  not  much,  strictly  new, 
only  more  important  modern  combinations,  and  new  relative  adjust 
ments, )  must  indeed  recast  the  old  metal,  the  already  achiev'd 
material,  into  and  through  new  moulds,  current  forms. 

Meantime,  the  highest  and  subtlest  and  broadest  truths  of  modern 
science  wait  for  their  true  assignment  and  last  vivid  flashes  of  light  — 
as  Democracy  waits  for  it's  —  through  first-class  metaphysicians  and 
speculative  philosophs  —  laying  the  basements  and  foundations  for 
those  new,  more  expanded,  more  harmonious,  more  melodious,  freer 
American  poems. 

"  SOCIETY  "  I  have  myself  little  or  no  hope  from  what 

is   technically    called   "Society"    in    our 

American  cities.  New  York,  of  which  place  I  have  spoken  so  sharply, 
still  promises  something,  in  time,  out  of  its  tremendous  and  varied 
materials,  with  a  certain  superiority  of  intuitions,  and  the  advantage 
of  constant  agitation,  and  ever  new  and  rapid  dealings  of  the  cards. 
Of  Boston,  with  its  circles  of  social  mummies,  swathed  in  cerements 
harder  than  brass  —  its  bloodless  religion,  (Unitarianism,)  its  compla 
cent  vanity  of  scientism  and  literature,  lots  of  grammatical  correctness, 
mere  knowledge,  (always  wearisome,  in  itself)  — its  zealous  abstrac 
tions,  ghosts  of  reforms  —  I  should  say,  (ever  admitting  its  business 
powers,  its  sharp,  almost  demoniac,  intellect,  and  no  lack,  in  its  own 
way,  of  courage  and  generosity) — there  is,  at  present,  little  of  cheer 
ing,  satisfying  sign.  In  the  West,  California,  &c.,  "society"  is  yet 
unform'd,  puerile,  seemingly  unconscious  of  anything  above  a  driving 
business,  or  to  liberally  spend  the  money  made  by  it,  in  the  usual 
rounds  and  shows. 


COLLECT  323 

Then  there  is,  to  the  humorous  observer  of  American  attempts  at 
fashion,  according  to  the  models  of  foreign  courts  and  saloons,  quite  a 
comic  side—  particul  rly  visible  at  Washington  city  — -  a  sort  of  high- 
life-below-stairs  business.  As  if  any  farce  could  be  funnier,  for  instance, 
than  the  scenes  of  the  crowds,  winter  nights,  meandering  around  our 
Presidents  and  their  wives,  cabinet  officers,  western  or  other  Senators, 
Representatives,  &c.;  born  of  good  laboring  mechanic  or  farmer  stock 
and  antecedents,  attempting  those  full-dress  receptions,  finesse  of 
parlors,  foreign  ceremonies,  etiquettes,  &c. 

Indeed,  consider' d  with  any  sense  of  propriety,  or  any  sense  at  all, 
the  whole  of  this  illy-play'd  fashionable  play  and  display,  with  their 
absorption  of  the  best  part  of  our  wealthier  citizens'  time,  money, 
energies,  &c.,  is  ridiculously  out  of  place  in  the  United  States.  As 
if  our  proper  man  and  woman,  (far,  far  greater  words  than  "gentle 
man"  and  "lady,")  could  still  fail  to  see,  and  presently  achieve, 
not  this  spectral  business,  but  something  truly  noble,  active,  sane, 

American by  modes,  perfections  of  character,  manners,  costumes, 

social  relations,  &c.,  adjusted  to  standards,  far,  far  different  from  those. 
Eminent  and  liberal  foreigners,  British  or  continental,  must  at  times 
have  their  faith  fearfully  tried  by  what  they  see  of  our  New  World 
personalities.  The  shallowest  and  least  American  persons  seem  surest 
to  push  abroad,  and  call  without  fail  on  well-known  foreigners,  who 
are  doubtless  affected  with  indescribable  qualms  by  these  queer  ones. 
Then,  more  than  half  of  our  authors  and  writers  evidently  think  it  a 
great  thing  to  be  "aristocratic,"  and  sneer  at  progress,  democracy, 
revolution,  &c.  If  some  international  literary  snobs'  gallery  were 
establish' d,  it  is  certain  that  America  could  contribute  at  least  her  full 
share  of  the  portraits,  and  some  very  distinguish' d  ones.  Observe  that 
the  most  impudent  slanders,  low  insults,  &c.,  on  the  great  revolution 
ary  authors,  leaders,  poets,  &c.,  of  Europe,  have  their  origin  and  main 
circulation  in  certain  circles  here.  The  treatment  of  Victor  Hugo 
living,  and  Byron  dead,  are  samples.  Both  deserving  so  well  of 
America,  and  both  persistently  attempted  to  be  soil'd  here  by  unclean 
birds,  male  and  female. 

Meanwhile  I  must  still  offset  the  like  of  the  foregoing,  and  all 
infers,  by  the  recognition  of  the  fact,  that  while  the  surfaces  of  current 
society  here  show  so  much  that  is  dismal,  noisome,  and  vapory,  there 
are,  beyond  question,  inexhaustible  supplies,  as  of  true  gold  ore,  in  the 
mines  of  America's  general  humanity.  Let  us,  not  ignoring  the  dross, 
give  fit  stress  to  these  precious  immortal  values  also.  Let  it  be  dis 
tinctly  admitted,  that  —  whatever  may  be  said  of  our  ^fashionable 
society,  and  of  any  foul  fractions  and  episodes  —  only  here  in  America, 
out  of  the  long  history  and  manifold  presentations  of  the  ages,  has  at 
last  arisen,  and  now  stands,  what  never  before  took  positive  form  and 


324  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

sway,  the  People  —  and  that  view'd  en  masse,  and  while  fully  acknowl 
edging  deficiencies,  dangers,  faults,  this  people,  inchoate,  latent,  not 
yet  come  to  majority,  nor  to  its  own  religious,  literary,  or  esthetic 
expression,  yet  affords,  to-day,  an  exultant  justification  of  all  the  faith, 
all  the  hopes  and  prayers  and  prophecies  of  good  men  through  the  past 

—  the  stablest,   solidest-based   government  of  the  world  —  the  most 
assured  in  a  future  —  the  beaming  Pharos  to  whose  perennial  light  all 
earnest  eyes,  the  world  over,  are  tending  —  and  that  already,  in  and 
from   it,   the    democratic  principle,   having   been    mortally   tried    by 
severest  tests,  fatalities  of  war  and  peace,  now  issues  from  the  trial, 
unharm'd,  trebly-invigorated,  perhaps  to  commence  forthwith  its  finally 
triumphant  march  around  the  globe. 

THE  TRAMP  AND  Two  grim  and  spectral  dangers  —  danger- 
STRIKE  QUES-  ous  to  peace,  to  health,  to  social  security, 

TIONS  to  progress  —  long  known  in  concrete  to 

Part  of  a  Lecture  proposed,  the  governments  of  the  Old  World,  and 
(never  delivered)  there  eventuating,  more  than  once  or  twice, 

in    dynastic   overturns,    bloodshed,    days, 

months,  of  terror  —  seem  of  late  years  to  be  nearing  the  New  World, 
nay,  to  be  gradually  establishing  themselves  among  us.  What  mean 
these  phantoms  here  ?  (I  personify  them  in  fictitious  shapes,  but  they 
are  very  real.)  Is  the  fresh  and  broad  demesne  of  America  destined 
also  to  give  them  foothold  and  lodgment,  permanent  domicile  ? 

Beneath  the  whole  political  world,  what  most  presses  and  perplexes 
to-day,  sending  vastest  results  affecting  the  future,  is  not  the  abstract 
question  of  democracy,  but  of  social  and  economic  organization,  the 
treatment  of  working-people  by  employers,  and  all  that  goes  along  with 
it  —  not  only  the  wages-payment  part,  but  a  certain  spirit  and  principle, 
to  vivify  anew  these  relations ;  all  the  questions  of  progress,  strength, 
tariffs,  finance,  &c.,  really  evolving  themselves  more  or  less  directly 
out  of  the  Poverty  Question,  ("the  Science  of  Wealth,"  and  a  dozen 
other  names  are  given  it,  but  I  prefer  the  severe  one  just  used.)  I 
will  begin  by  calling  the  reader's  attention  to  a  thought  upon  the 
matter  which  may  not  have  struck  you  before  —  the  wealth  of  the 
civilized  world,  as  contrasted  with  its  poverty  —  what  does  it  deriva 
tively  stand  for,  and  represent  ?  A  rich  person  ought  to  have  a  strong 
stomach.  As  in  Europe  the  wealth  of  to-day  mainly  results  from,  and 
represents,  the  rapine,  murder,  outrages,  treachery,  hoggishness,  of 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  onward,  later,  so  in  America,  after  the 
same  token  —  (not  yet  so  bad,  perhaps,  or  at  any  rate  not  so  palpable 

—  we  have  not  existed  long  enough  —  but  we  seem  to  be  doing  our 
best  to  make  it  up.) 

Curious  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  in  what  are  calPd  the  poorest,  lowest 


COLLECT  325 

characters  you  will  sometimes,  nay  generally,  find  glints  of  the  most 
sublime  virtues,  eligibilities,  heroisms.  Then  it  is  doubtful  whether 
the  State  is  to  be  saved,  either  in  the  monotonous  long  run,  or 
mendous  special  crises,  by  its  good  people  only.  When  the  storm  is 
deadliest,  and  the  disease  most  imminent,  help  often  comes  from  strange 
quarters—  (the  homoeopathic  motto,  you  remember,  cure  the  bite  with 
a  hair  of  the  same  dog.) 

The  American  Revolution  of  1776  was  simply  a  great  strike  suc 
cessful  for  its  immediate  object  —  but  whether  a  real  success  judged  by 
the  scale  of  the  centuries,  and  the  long-striking  balance  of  Time,  yet 
remains  to  be  settled.  The  French  Revolution  was  absolutely  a  strike, 
and  a  very  terrible  and  relentless  one,  against  ages  of  bad  pay,  unjust 
division  of  wealth-products,  and  the  hoggish  monopoly  of  a  few,  roll 
ing  in  superfluity,  against  the  vast  bulk  of  the  work-people,  living  ir 

SqTf°the  United  States,  like  the  countries  of  the  Old  World,  are  also 
to  grow  vast  crops  of  poor,  desperate,  dissatisfied,  nomadic,  miserably- 
waged   populations,  such  as  we  see  looming  upon  us  of  late  years - 
steadily,  even  if  slowly,  eating  into  them  like  a  cancer  of  lungs  or 
stomach  — then  our   republican    experiment,   notwithstanding    all 
surface-successes,  is  at  heart  an  unhealthy  failure. 

Feb  '70.—  I  saw  to-day  a  sight  I  had  never  seen  before  — and  i 
amazed,  and  made  me  serious ;  three  quite  good-looking  American 
men,  of  respectable  personal  presence,  two  of  them  young,  carrying 
chiffonier-bags  on  their  shoulders,  and  the  usual  long  iron  hooks  m 
their  hands,  plodding  along,  their  eyes  cast  down,  spying  for  scraps, 
rags,  bones,  &c. 

DEMOCRACY    IN  estimated  and  summ'd-up  to-day,  having 

THE    NEW   WORLD     thoroughly  justified  itself  the  past  hundred 

years,    (as    far    as    growth,     vitality    and 

power  are  concern' d,)  by  severest  and  most  varied  trials  of  peace  and 
war,  and  having  establish'd  itself  for  good,  with  all  its  necessities  and 
benefits,  for  time  to  come,  is  now  to  be  seriously  consider' d  also  in  its 
pronounc'd  and  already  develop!  dangers.  While  the  battle  was 
raging,  and  the  result  suspended,  all  defections  and  criticisms  were  to 
be  hush'd,  and  everything  bent  with  vehemence  unmitigated  toward 
the  urge  of  victory.  But  that  victory  settled,  new  responsibi 
advance.  I  can  conceive  of  no  better  service  in  the  United  States, 
henceforth,  by  democrats  of  thorough  and  heart-felt  faith,  than  b  dly 
exposing  the  weakness,  liabilities  and  infinite  corruptions  of  democracy. 
By  the  unprecedented  opening-up  of  humanity  en-masse  in  the  United 
States,  the  last  hundred  years,  under  our  institutions,  not  only  the 
good  qualities  of  the  race,  but  just  as  much  the  bad  ones,  are  promi- 


326  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

nently  brought  forward.  Man  is  about  the  same,  in  the  main, 
whether  with  despotism,  or  whether  with  freedom. 

"The  ideal  form  of  human  society,"  Canon  Kingsley  declares,  "is 
democracy.  A  nation  —  and  were  it  even  possible,  a  whole  world  — 
of  free  men,  lifting  free  foreheads  to  God  and  Nature ;  calling  no  man 
master,  for  One  is  their  master,  even  God  ;  knowing  and  doing  their 
duties  toward  the  Maker  of  the  universe,  and  therefore  to  each  other  ; 
not  from  fear,  nor  calculation  of  profit  or  loss,  but  because  they  have 
seen  the  beauty  of  righteousness,  and  trust,  and  peace ;  because  the  law 
of  God  is  in  their  hearts.  Such  a  nation  —  such  a  society — what 
nobler  conception  of  moral  existence  can  we  form  ?  Would  not  that, 
indeed,  be  the  kingdom  of  God  come  on  earth  ? ' ' 

To  this  faith,  founded  in  the  ideal,  let  us  hold  —  and  never 
abandon  or  lose  it.  Then  what  a  spectacle  is  practically  exhibited  by 
our  American  democracy  to-day  ! 

FOUNDATION  Though  I  think  I  fully  comprehend  the 

STAGES  —  THEN  absence  of  moral  tone  in  our  current  poli- 

OTHERS  tics    and    business,  and  the  almost  entire 

futility  of  absolute  and  simple  honor  as  a 

counterpoise  against  the  enormous  greed  for  worldly  wealth,  with  the 
trickeries  of  gaining  it,  all  through  society  our  day,  I  still  do  not  share 
the  depression  and  despair  on  the  subject  which  I  find  possessing  many 
good  people.  The  advent  of  America,  the  history  of  the  past  cen 
tury,  has  been  the  first  general  aperture  and  opening-up  to  the  average 
human  commonalty,  on  the  broadest  scale,  of  the  eligibilities  to 
wealth  and  worldly  success  and  eminence,  and  has  been  fully  taken 
advantage  of;  and  the  example  has  spread  hence,  in  ripples,  to  all 
nations.  To  these  eligibilities  —  to  this  limitless  aperture,  the  race  has 
tended,  en-masse,  roaring  and  rushing  and  crude,  and  fiercely,  turbidly 
hastening  —  and  we  have  seen  the  first  stages,  and  are  now  in  the 
midst  of  the  result  of  it  all,  so  far.  But  there  will  certainly  ensue 
other  stages,  and  entirely  different  ones.  In  nothing  is  there  more 
evolution  than  the  American  mind.  Soon,  it  will  be  fully  realized  that 
ostensible  wealth  and  money-making,  show,  luxury,  &c. ,  imperatively 
necessitate  something  beyond  —  namely,  the  sane,  eternal  moral  and 
spiritual-esthetic  attributes,  elements.  (We  cannot  have  even  that 
realization  on  any  less  terms  than  the  price  we  are  now  paying  for  it. ) 
Soon,  it  will  be  understood  clearly,  that  the  State  cannot  flourish, 
(nay,  cannot  exist,)  without  those  elements.  They  will  gradually 
enter  into  the  chyle  of  sociology  and  literature.  They  will  finally 
make  the  blood  and  brawn  of  the  best  American  individualities  of  both 
sexes —  and  thus,  with  them,  to  a  certainty,  (through  these  very  proc 
esses  of  to-day,)  dominate  the  New  World. 


COLLECT  327 

GENERAL  SUF-  It    still    remains  doubtful   to  me  whether 

FRAGE,   ELEC-  these  will  ever  secure,  officially,  the  best 

TIONS,   ETC.  wit  and  capacity —  whether,  through  them, 

the  first-class  genius  of  America  will  ever 

personally  appear  in  the  high  political  stations,  the  Presidency,  Con 
gress,  the  leading  State  offices,  &c.  Those  offices,  or  the  candidacy 
for  them,  arranged,  won,  by  caucusing,  money,  the  favoritism  or 
pecuniary  interest  of  rings,  the  superior  manipulation  of  the  ins  over 
the  outs,  or  the  outs  over  the  ins,  are,  indeed,  at  best,  the  mere 
business  agencies  of  the  people,  are  useful  as  formulating,  neither 
the  best  and  highest,  but  the  average  of  the  public  judgment,  sense, 
justice,  (or  sometimes  want  of  judgment,  sense,  justice.)  We  elect 
Presidents,  Congressmen,  &c.,  not  so  much  to  have  them  consider  and 
decide  for  us,  but  as  surest  practical  means  of  expressing  the  will  of 
majorities  on  mooted  questions,  measures,  &c. 

As  to  general  suffrage,  after  all,  since  we  have  gone  so  far,  the 
more  general  it  is,  the  better.  I  favor  the  widest  opening  of  the 
doors.  Let  the  ventilation  and  area  be  wide  enough,  and  all  is  safe. 
We  can  never  have  a  born  penitentiary-bird,  or  panel-thief,  or  lowest 
gambling-hell  or  groggery  keeper,  for  President  —  though  such  may 
not  only  emulate,  but  get,  high  offices  from  localities  —  even  from  the 
proud  and  wealthy  city  of  New  York. 

WHO   GETS  THE  The  protectionists  are  fond  of  flashing  to  the 

PLUNDER  ?  public  eye  the  glittering  delusion  of  great 

money-results  from  manufactures,   mines, 

artificial  exports  —  so  many  millions  from  this  source,  and  so  many 
from  that  —  such  a  seductive,  unanswerable  show  —  an  immense  reve 
nue  of  annual  cash  from  iron,  cotton,  woollen,  leather  goods,  and  a 
hundred  other  things,  all  bolstered  up  by  "protection."  But  the 
really  important  point  of  all  is,  into  whose  pockets  does  this  plunder 
really  go?  It  would  be  some  excuse  and  satisfaction  if  even  a  fair 
proportion  of  it  went  to  the  masses  of  laboring-men  —  resulting  in 
homesteads  to  such,  men,  women,  children  —  myriads  of  actual  homes 
in  fee  simple,  in  every  State,  (not  the  false  glamour  of  the  stunning 
wealth  reported  in  the  census,  in  the  statistics,  or  tables  in  the  news 
papers,)  but  a  fair  division  and  generous  average  to  those  workmen 
and  workwomen  —  that  would  be  something.  But  the  fact  itself  is 
nothing  of  the  kind.  The  profits  of  "protection"  go  altogether  to  a 
few  score  select  persons  —  who,  by  favors  of  Congress,  State  legisla 
tures,  the  banks,  and  other  special  advantages,  are  forming  a  vulgar 
aristocracy,  full  as  bad  as  anything  in  the  British  or  European  castes,  of 
blood,  or  the  dynasties  there  of  the  past.  As  Sismondi  pointed  out, 
the  true  prosperity  of  a  nation  is  not  in  the  great  wealth  of  a  special 


328  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

class,  but  is  only  to  be  really  attain' d  in  having  the  bulk  of  the  people 
provided  with  homes  or  land  in  fee  simple.  This  may  not  be  the 
best  show,  but  it  is  the  best  reality. 

FRIENDSHIP,    (THE      Though  Nature  maintains,  and  must  pre- 

REAL  ARTICLE)  vail,  there  will  always  be  plenty  of  people, 

and  good  people,  who  cannot,   or  think 

they  cannot,  see  anything  in  that  last,  wisest,  most  envelop' d  of  prov 
erbs,  "Friendship  rules  the  World."  Modern  society,  in  its  largest 
vein,  is  essentially  intellectual,  infidelistic  —  secretly  admires,  ^  and 
depends  most  on,  pure  compulsion  or  science,  its  rule  and  sovereignty 
is,  in  short,  in  "  cultivated  "  quarters,  deeply  Napoleonic. 

"Friendship,"  said  Bonaparte,  in  one  of  his  lightning-flashes  of 
candid  garrulity,  "Friendship  is  but  a  name.  I  love  no  one  —  not 
even  my  brothers ;  Joseph  perhaps  a  little.  Still,  if  I  do  love  him, 
it  is  from  habit,  because  he  is  the  eldest  of  us.  Duroc  ?  Ay,  him, 
if  any  one,  I  love  in  a  sort  —  but  why  ?  He  suits  me ;  he  is  cool, 
undemonstrative,  unfeeling  —  has  no  weak  affections — never  embraces 
any  one  —  never  weeps." 

I  am  not  sure  but  the  same  analogy  is  to  be  applied,  in  cases,  often 
seen,  where,  with  an  extra  development  and  acuteness  of  the  mtel- 
lectual  faculties,  there  is  a  mark'd  absence  of  the  spiritual,  affectional, 
and  sometimes,  though  more  rarely,  the  highest  esthetic  and  moral 
elements  of  cognition. 

LACKS     AND  Of  most  foreign  countries,  small  or  large, 

WANTS  YET  from  the  remotest  times  known,  down  to 

our  own,  each  has  contributed    after  its 

kind,  directly  or  indirectly,  at  least  one  great  undying  song,  to  help 
vitalize  and  increase  the  valor,  wisdom,  and  elegance  of  humanity, 
from  the  points  of  view  attain' d  by  it  up  to  date.  The  stupendous 
epics  of  India,  the  holy  Bible  itself,  the  Homeric  canticles,  the  Nibe- 
lungen,  the  Cid  Campeador,  the  Inferno,  Shakspere's  dramas  of  the 
passions  and  of  the  feudal  lords,  Burns' s  songs,  Goethe's  in  Germany, 
Tennyson's  poems  in  England,  Victor  Hugo's  in  France,  and  many 
more,  are  the  widely  various  yet  integral  signs  or  land-marks,  (in 
certain  respects  the  highest  set  up  by  the  human  mind  and  soul,  beyond 
science,  invention,  political  amelioration,  &c.,)  narrating  in^  subtlest, 
best  ways,  the  long,  long  routes  of  history,  and  giving  identity  to  the 
stages  arrived  at  by  aggregate  humanity,  and  the  conclusions  assumed 
in  its  progressive  and  varied  civilizations.  .  .  .  Where  is  America's 
art-rendering,  in  any  thing  like  the  spirit  worthy  of  herself  and  the 
modern,  to  these  characteristic  immortal  monuments  ?  So  far,  our 
Democratic  society,  (estimating  its  various  strata,  in  the  mass,  as  one,) 


COLLECT  329 

possesses  nothing  —  nor  have  we  contributed  any  characteristic  music, 
the  finest  tie  of  nationality  —  to  make  up  for  that  glowing,  blood- 
throbbing,  religious,  social,  emotional,  artistic,  indefinable,  indescrib 
ably  beautiful  charm  and  hold  which  fused  the  separate  parts  of  the 
old  feudal  societies  together,  in  their  wonderful  interpenetration,  in 
Europe  and  Asia,  of  love,  belief,  and  loyalty,  running  one  way  like  a 
living  weft  —  and  picturesque  responsibility,  duty,  and  blessedness, 
running  like  a  warp  the  other  way.  (In  the  Southern  States,  under 
slavery,  much  of  the  same.)  ...  In  coincidence,  and  as  things  now 
exist  in  the  States,  what  is  more  terrible,  more  alarming,  than  the 
total  want  of  any  such  fusion  and  mutuality  of  love,  belief,  and  rapport 
of  interest,  between  the  comparatively  few  successful  rich,  and  the  great 
masses  of  the  unsuccessful,  the  poor  ?  As  a  mixed  political  and  social 
question,  is  not  this  full  of  dark  significance  ?  Is  it  not  worth  con 
sidering  as  a  problem  and  puzzle  in  our  democracy  — •an  indispensable 
want  to  be  supplied  ? 

RULERS  STRICTLY     In  the  talk  (which  I  welcome)  about  the 

OUT  OF  THE  need  of  men  of  training,  thoroughly  school' d 

MASSES  and    experienced    men,    for    statesmen,    I 

would  present  the  following  as  an  offset. 

It  was  written  by  me  twenty  years  ago  —  and  has  been  curiously  veri 
fied  since  : 

I  say  no  body  of  men  are  fit  to  make  Presidents,  Judges,  and 
Generals,  unless  they  themselves  supply  the  best  specimens  of  the 
same  ;  and  that  supplying  one  or  two  such  specimens  illuminates  the 
whole  body  for  a  thousand  years.  I  expect  to  see  the  day  when  the 
like  of  the  present  personnel  of  the  governments,  Federal,  State, 
municipal,  military,  and  naval,  will  be  look'd  upon  with  derision,  and 
when  qualified  mechanics  and  young  men  will  reach  Congress  and 
other  official  stations,  sent  in  their  working  costumes,  fresh  from  their 
benches  and  tools,  and  returning  to  them  again  with  dignity.  The 
young  fellows  must  prepare  to  do  credit  to  this  destiny,  for  the  stuff  is 
in  them.  Nothing  gives  place,  recollect,  and  never  ought  to  give 
place,  except  to  its  clean  superiors.  There  is  more  rude  and  unde- 
velopt  bravery,  friendship,  conscientiousness,  clear-sightedness,  and 
practical  genius  for  any  scope  of  action,  even  the  broadest  and  highest, 
now  among  the  American  mechanics  and  young  men,  than  in  all  the 
official  persons  in  these  States,  legislative,  executive,  judicial,  military, 
and  naval,  and  more  than  among  all  the  literary  persons.  I  would 
be  much  pleas' d  to  see  some  heroic,  shrewd,  fully-inform'd,  healthy- 
bodied,  middle-aged,  beard-faced  American  blacksmith  or  boatman 
come  down  from  the  West  across  the  Alleghanies,  and  walk  into  the 
Presidency,  dress' d  in  a  clean  suit  of  working  attire,  and  with  the  tan 


330  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

all  over  his  face,  breast,  and  arms  ;  I  would  certainly  vote  for  that 
sort  of  man,  possessing  the  due  requirements,  before  any  other  candi 
date. 

(The  facts  of  rank-and-file  workingmen,  mechanics,  Lincoln,  John 
son,  Grant,  Garfield,  brought  forward  from  the  masses  and  placed  in 
the  Presidency,  and  swaying  its  mighty  powers  with  firm  hand — really 
with  more  sway  than  any  king  in  history,  and  with  better  capacity  in 
using  that  sway  —  can  we  not  see  that  these  facts  have  bearings  far, 
far  beyond  their  political  or  party  ones?) 

MONUMENTS —  If  you  go  to  Europe,  (to  say  nothing  of 

THE  PAST  AND  Asia,    more    ancient   and    massive    still,) 

PRESENT  you  cannot  stir  without  meeting  venerable 

mementos — cathedrals,   ruins  of  temples, 

castles,  monuments  of  the  great,  statues  and  paintings,  (far,  far  beyond 
anything  America  can  ever  expect  to  produce,)  haunts  of  heroes  long 
dead,  saints,  poets,  divinities,  with  deepest  associations  of  ages.  But 
here  in  the  New  World,  while  those  we  can  never  emulate,  we  have 
more  than  those  to  build,  and  far  more  greatly  to  build.  (I  am  not 
sure  but  the  day  for  conventional  monuments,  statues,  memorials,  &c., 
has  pass'd  away — and  that  they  are  henceforth  superfluous  and  vulgar.) 
An  enlarg'd  general  superior  humanity,  (partly  indeed  resulting  from 
those,)  we  are  to  build.  European,  Asiatic  greatness  are  in  the  past. 
Vaster  and  subtler,  America,  combining,  justifying  the  past,  yet  works 
for  a  grander  future,  in  living  democratic  forms.  (Here  too  are  indi 
cated  the  paths  for  our  national  bards.)  Other  times,  other  lands, 
have  had  their  missions — Art,  War,  Ecclesiasticism,  Literature,  Dis 
covery,  Trade,  Architecture,  &c.,  &c.  —  but  that  grand  future  is  the 
enclosing  purport  of  the  United  States. 

LITTLE  OR  NOTH-     How  small  were  the  best  thoughts,  poems, 

ING  NEW,   AFTER         conclusions,  except  for  a  certain  invariable 

ALL  resemblance  and  uniform  standard  in  the 

final  thoughts,  theology,  poems,  &c.,   of 

all  nations,  all  civilizations,  all  centuries  and  times.  Those  precious 
legacies  —  accumulations!  They  come  to  us  from  the  far-off — from 
all  eras,  and  all  lands  —  from  Egypt,  and  India,  and  Greece,  and  Rome 
—  and  along  through  the  middle  and  later  ages,  in  the  grand  monarchies 
of  Europe  —  born  under  far  different  institutes  and  conditions  from 
ours  —  but  out  of  the  insight  and  inspiration  of  the  same  old  humanity 
— the  same  old  heart  and  brain  —  the  same  old  countenance  yearningly, 
pensively,  looking  forth.  What  we  have  to  do  to-day  is  to  receive 
them  cheerfully,  and  to  give  them  ensemble,  and  a  modern  American 
and  democratic  physiognomy. 


COLLECT  331 

A  LINCOLN  REMI-     As  is  well  known,  story-telling  was  often 

NISCENCE  with  President  Lincoln  a  weapon  which 

he  employ' d  with  great  skill.      Very  often 

he  could  not  give  a  point-blank  reply  or  comment  —  and  these  indirec 
tions,  (sometimes  funny,  but  not  always  so,)  were  probably  the  best 
responses  possible.  In  the  gloomiest  period  of  the  war,  he  had  a  call 
from  a  large  delegation  of  bank  presidents.  In  the  talk  after  business 
was  settled,  one  of  the  big  Dons  asked  Mr.  Lincoln  if  his  confidence 
in  the  permanency  of  the  Union  was  not  beginning  to  be  shaken  — 
whereupon  the  homely  President  told  a  little  story:  "  When  I  was  a 
young  man  in  Illinois,"  said  he,  "I  boarded  for  a  time  with  a  deacon 
of  the  Presbyterian  church.  One  night  I  was  roused  from  my  sleep 
by  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  I  heard  the  deacon's  voice  exclaiming, 
«  Arise,  Abraham !  the  day  of  judgment  has  come ! '  I  sprang  from 
my  bed  and  rushed  to  the  window,  and  saw  the  stars  falling  in  great 
showers ;  but  looking  back  of  them  in  the  heavens  I  saw  the  grand 
old  constellations,  with  which  I  was  so  well  acquainted,  fixed  and  true 
in  their  places.  Gentlemen,  the  world  did  not  come  to  an  end  then, 
nor  will  the  Union  now." 

FREEDOM  It  is  not  only  true  that  most  people  entirely 

misunderstand  Freedom,  but  I  sometimes 

think  I  have  not  yet  met  one  person  who  rightly  understands  it.  The 
whole  Universe  is  absolute  Law.  Freedom  only  opens  entire  activity 
"""and  license  under  the  law.  To  the  degraded  or  undevelopt- — and 
"even  to  too  many  others  —  the  thought  of  freedom  is  a  thought  of 
escaping  from  law  —  which,  of  course,  is  impossible.  More  precious 
than  all  worldly  riches  is  Freedom  —  freedom  from  the  painful  consti 
pation  and  poor  narrowness  of  ecclesiasticism —  freedom  in  manners, 
habiliments,  furniture,  from  the  silliness  and  tyranny  of  local  fashions 
—  entire  freedom  from  party  rings  and  mere  conventions  in  Politics  — 
and  better  than  all,  a  general  freedom  of  One's-Self  from  the  tyrannic 
domination  of  vices,  habits,  appetites,  under  which  nearly  every  man 
of  us,  (often  the  greatest  brawler  for  freedom,)  is  enslav'd.  Can  we 
attain  such  enfranchisement  —  the  true  Democracy,  and  the  height  of 
it?  While  we  are  from  birth  to  death  the  subjects  of  irresistible  law, 
enclosing  every  movement  and  minute,  we  yet  escape,  by  a  paradox, 
into  true  free  will.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  we  only  attain  to  free 
dom  by  a  knowledge  of,  and  implicit  obedience  to,  Law.  Great  — 
unspeakably  great —  is  the  Will !  the  free  Soul  of  man !  At  its  greatest, 
understanding  and  obeying  the  laws,  it  can  then,  and  then  only, 
maintain  true  liberty.  For  there  is  to  the  highest,  that  law  as  absolute 
as  any — more  absolute  than  any  —  the  Law  of  Liberty.  The  shal 
low,  as  intimated,  consider  liberty  a  release  from  all  law,  from  every 


332  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

constraint.  The  wise  see  in  it,  on  the  contrary,  the  potent  Law  of 
Laws,  namely,  the  fusion  and  combination  of  the  conscious  will,  or 
partial  individual  law,  with  those  universal,  eternal,  unconscious  ones, 
which  run  through  all  Time,  pervade  history,  prove  immortality,  give 
moral  purpose  to  the  entire  objective  world,  and  the  last  dignity  to 
human  life. 

BOOK-CLASSES —  For  certain  purposes,  literary  productions 

AMERICA'S  LITER-  through  all  the  recorded  ages  may  be 
ATURE  roughly  divided  into  two  classes.  The 

first  consisting  of  only  a  score  or  two,  per 
haps  less,  of  typical,  primal,  representative  works,  different  from  any 
before,  and  embodying  in  themselves  their  own  main  laws  and  reasons 
for  being.  Then  the  second  class,  books  and  writings  innumerable, 
incessant  —  to  be  briefly  described  as  radiations  or  offshoots,  or  more 
or  less  imitations  of  the  first.  The  works  of  the  first  class,  as  said, 
have  their  own  laws,  and  may  indeed  be  described  as  making  those 
laws,  and  amenable  only  to  them.  The  sharp  warning  of  Margaret 
Fuller,  unquelPd  for  thirty  years,  yet  sounds  in  the  air  :  "It  does  not 
follow  that  because  the  United  States  print  and  read  more  books, 
magazines,  and  newspapers  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  that  they 
really  have,  therefore,  a  literature.'* 

OUR    REAL    CUL-         The  final    culmination    of  this  vast   and 

MINATION  varied   Republic  will    be    the   production 

and  perennial  establishment  of  millions  of 

comfortable  city  homesteads  and  moderate-sized  farms,  healthy  and 
independent,  single  separate  ownership,  fee  simple,  life  in  them  com 
plete  but  cheap,  within  reach  of  all.  Exceptional  wealth,  splendor, 
countless  manufactures,  excess  of  exports,  immense  capital  and  capital 
ists,  the  five-dollar-a-day  hotels  well  fill'd,  artificial  improvements, 
even  books,  colleges,  and  the  suffrage  —  all,  in  many  respects,  in 
themselves,  (hard  as  it  is  to  say  so,  and  sharp  as  a  surgeon's  lance,) 
form,  more  or  less,  a  sort  of  anti-democratic  disease  and  monstrosity, 
except  as  they  contribute  by  curious  indirections  to  that  culmination  — 
seem  to  me  mainly  of  value,  or  worth  consideration,  only  with  refer 
ence  to  it. 

There  is  a  subtle  something  in  the  common  earth,  crops,  cattle,  air, 
trees,  &c.,  and  in  having  to  do  at  first  hand  with  them,  that  forms  the 
only  purifying  and  perennial  element  for  individuals  and  for  society. 
I  must  confess  I  want  to  see  the  agricultural  occupation  of  America  at 
first  hand  permanently  broaden' d.  Its  gains  are  the  only  ones  on 
which  God  seems  to  smile.  What  others  —  what  business,  profit, 
wealth,  without  a  taint  ?  What  fortune  else  —  what  dollar  —  does 


COLLECT  333 

not  stand  for,  and  come  from,  more  or  less  imposition,  lying,  un- 
naturalness  ? 

AN    AMERICAN  One  of  the  problems  presented  in  America 

PROBLEM  these  times  is,  how  to  combine  one's  duty 

and  policy  as  a  member  of  associations, 

societies,  brotherhoods  or  what  not,  and  one's  obligations  to  the  State 
and  Nation,  with  essential  freedom  as  an  individual  personality,  with 
out  which  freedom  a  man  cannot  grow  or  expand,  or  be  full,  modern, 
heroic,  democratic,  American.  With  all  the  necessities  and  benefits 
of  association,  (and  the  world  cannot  get  along  without  it,)  the  true 
nobility  and  satisfaction  of  a  man  consist  in  his  thinking  and  acting  for 
himself.  The  problem,  I  say,  is  to  combine  the  two,  so  as  not  to 
ignore  either. 

THE  LAST  COL-  I  like  well  our  polyglot  construction-stamp, 
LECTIVE  COMPAC-  and  the  retention  thereof,  in  the  broad, 
TION  the  tolerating,  the  many-sided,  the  collec 

tive.      All    nations     here  —  a    home    for 

every  race  on  earth.  British,  German,  Scandinavian,  Spanish, 
French,  Italian  —  papers  published,  plays  acted,  speeches  made,  in  all 
languages  —  on  our  shores  the  crowning  resultant  of  those  distillations, 
decantations,  compactions  of  humanity,  that  have  been  going  on,  on 
trial,  over  the  earth  so  long. 


APPENDIX:   PIECES    IN 
EARLY  YOUTH 

1834-42 

DOUGH-FACE  SONG 

—  Like  dough;  soft;  yielding  to  pressure;  pale. —  Webster's  Dictionary. 

WE  are  all  docile  dough-faces, 

They  knead  us  with  the  fist, 
They,  the  dashing  southern  lords, 

We  labor  as  they  list  ; 
For  them  we  speak  —  or  hold  our  tongues, 

For  them  we  turn  and  twist. 

We  join  them  in  their  howl  against 

Free  soil  and  "  abolition," 
That  firebrand  —  that  assassin  knife  — 

Which  risk  our  land's  condition, 
And  leave  no  peace  of  life  to  any 

Dough-faced  politician. 

To  put  down  " agitation,"  now, 

We  think  the  most  judicious  ; 
To  damn  all  "  northern  fanatics,'* 

Those  "  traitors"  black  and  vicious  ; 
The  "reg'lar  party  usages" 

For  us,  and  no  "new  issues." 

Things  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass, 

When  a  trifle  small  as  this, 
Moving  and  bartering  nigger  slaves, 

Can  open  an  abyss, 
With  jaws  a-gape  for  "the  two  great  parties  ;" 

A  pretty  thought,  I  wis  ! 

Principle  —  freedom  !  —  fiddlesticks  ! 
We  know  not  where  they  're  found. 
Rights  of  the  masses — progress  !  —  bah  ! 


COLLECT  335 

Words  that  tickle  and  sound  ; 
But  claiming  to  rule  o'er  ''practical  men" 
Is  very  different  ground. 

Beyond  all  such  we  know  a  term 

Charming  to  ears  and  eyes, 
With  it  we'll  stab  young  Freedom, 

And  do  it  in  disguise  ; 
Speak  soft,  ye  wily  dough-faces  — 

That  term  is  "  compromise." 

And  what  if  children,  growing  up, 

In  future  seasons  read 
The  thing  we  do  ?  and  heart  and  tongue 

Accurse  us  for  the  deed  ? 
The  future  cannot  touch  us  ; 

The  present  gain  we  heed. 

Then,  all  together,  dough-faces  ! 

Let's  stop  the  exciting  clatter, 
And  pacify  slave-breeding  wrath 

By  yielding  all  the  matter  ; 
For  otherwise,  as  sure  as  guns, 

The  Union  it  will  shatter. 

Besides,  to  tell  the  honest  truth 

(For  us  an  innovation,) 
Keeping  in  with  the  slave  power 

Is  our  personal  salvation  j 
We've  very  little  to  expect 

From  t'  other  part  of  the  nation. 

Besides  it's  plain  at  Washington 

Who  likeliest  wins  the  race, 
What  earthly  chance  has  "free  soil  " 

For  any  good  fat  place  ? 
While  many  a  daw  has  feather' d  his  nest, 

By  his  creamy  and  meek  dough-face. 

Take  heart,  then,  sweet  companions, 

Be  steady,  Scripture  Dick  ! 
Webster,  Cooper,  Walker, 

To  your  allegiance  stick  ! 
With  Brooks,  and  Briggs  and  Phoenix, 

Stand  up  through  thin  and  thick  ! 

We  do  not  ask  a  bold  brave  front  ; 

We  never  try  that  game  ; 
'Twould  bring  the  storm  upon  our  heads, 

A  huge  mad  storm  of  shame  ; 
Evade  it,  brothers  —  "compromise" 

Will  answer  just  the  same.  PAUMANOK. 

23 


336  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

DEATH  IN  THE  Ting-a-ling-ling-ling !  went  the  little  bell  on 

SCHOOL-ROOM  the  teacher's  desk  of  a  village-school  one 

(A  Fact)  morning,  when  the  studies  of  the  earlier  part 

of  the  day  were  about  half  completed.  It 

was  well  understood  that  this  was  a  command  for  silence  and  attention  j 
and  when  these  had  been  obtain'  d,  the  master  spoke.  He  was  a  low  thick 
set  man,  and  his  name  was  Lugare. 

"Boys,"  said  he,  "I  have  had  a  complaint  enter' d,  that  last  night 
some  of  you  were  stealing  fruit  from  Mr.  Nichols's  garden.  I  rather  think 
I  know  the  thief.  Tim  Barker,  step  up  here,  sir." 

The  one  to  whom  he  spoke  came  forward.  He  was  a  slight,  fair- 
looking  boy  of  about  thirteen  j  and  his  face  had  a  laughing,  good-humor'  d 
expression,  which  even  the  charge  now  preferr'd  against  him,  and  the  stern 
tone  and  threatening  look  of  the  teacher,  had  not  entirely  dissipated.  The 
countenance  of  the  boy,  however,  was  too  unearthly  fair  for  health  5  it  had, 
notwithstanding  its  fleshy,  cheerful  look,  a  singular  cast  as  if  some  inward 
disease,  and  that  a  fearful  one,  were  seated  within.  As  the  stripling  stood 
before  that  place  of  judgment — that  place  so  often  made  the  scene  of 
heartless  and  coarse  brutality,  of  timid  innocence  confused,  helpless  child 
hood  outraged,  and  gentle  feelings  crush' d — Lugare  looked  on  him  with  a 
frown  which  plainly  told  that  he  felt  in  no  very  pleasant  mood.  (Happily 
a  worthier  and  more  philosophical  system  is  proving  to  men  that  schools 
can  be  better  govern'  d  than  by  lashes  and  tears  and  sighs.  We  are  waxing 
toward  that  consummation  when  one  of  the  old-fashion' d  school-masters, 
with  his  cowhide,  his  heavy  birch-rod,  and  his  many  ingenious  methods  of 
child-torture,  will  be  gazed  upon  as  a  scorn'  d  memento  of  an  ignorant, 
cruel,  and  exploded  doctrine.  May  propitious  gales  speed  that  day!) 

"  Were  you  by  Mr.  Nichols's  garden-fence  last  night  ? "  said  Lugare. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answer' d  the  boy,  "I  was." 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  glad  to  find  you  so  ready  with  your  confession.  And 
so  you  thought  you  could  do  a  little  robbing,  and  enjoy  yourself  in  a 
manner  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  own,  without  being  punish' d,  did 
you  ? ' * 

"I  have  not  been  robbing,"  replied  the  boy  quickly.  His  face  was 
suffused,  whether  with  resentment  or  fright,  it  was  difficult  to  tell.  "And 
I  didn't  do  anything  last  night,  that  I  am  ashamed  to  own." 

"No  impudence!"  exclaim' d  the  teacher,  passionately,  as  he  grasp' d  a 
long  and  heavy  ratan  :  "give  me  none  of  your  sharp  speeches,  or  I'll 
thrash  you  till  you  beg  like  a  dog." 

The  youngster's  face  paled  a  little  j  his  lip  quiver' d,  but  he  did  not 
speak. 

"And  pray,  sir,"  continued  Lugare,  as  the  outward  signs  of  wrath 
disappear' d  from  his  features;  "what  were  you  about  the  garden  for? 
Perhaps  you  only  received  the  plunder,  and  had  an  accomplice  to  do  the 
more  dangerous  part  of  the  job  ? " 

"I  went  that  way  because  it  is  on  my  road  home.  I  was  there  again 
afterwards  to  meet  an  acquaintance  ;  and  —  and  —  But  I  did  not  go  into 
the  garden,  nor  take  anything  away  from  it.  I  would  not  steal,  —  hardly 
to  save  myself  from  starving." 


COLLECT 


337 


"You  had  better  have  stuck  to  that  last  evening.  You  were  seen,  Tim 
Barker,  to  come  from  under  Mr.  Nichols's  garden-fence,  a  little  after  nine 
o'clock,  with  a  bag  full  of  something  or  other  over  your  shoulders.  The 
bag  had  every  appearance  of  being  rilled  with  fruit,  and  this  morning  the 
melon-beds  are  found  to  have  been  completely  clear' d.  Now,  sir,  what 
was  there  in  that  bag  ?  " 

Like  fire  itself  glow'd  the  face  of  the  detected  lad.  He  spoke  not  a 
word.  All  the  school  had  their  eyes  directed  at  him.  The  perspiration 
ran  down  his  white  forehead  like  rain-drops. 

"Speak,  sir!"  exclaimed  Lugare,  with  a  loud  strike  of  his  ratan  on  the 
desk. 

The  boy  look'd  as  though  he  would  faint.  But  the  unmerciful  teacher, 
confident  of  having  brought  to  light  a  criminal,  and  exulting  in  the  idea  of 
the  severe  chastisement  he  should  now  be  justified  in  inflicting,  kept  work 
ing  himself  up  to  a  still  greater  and  greater  degree  of  passion.  In  the 
meantime,  the  child  seem'd  hardly  to  know  what  to  do  with  himself.  His 
tongue  cleav'd  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  Either  he  was  very  much  fright 
en' d,  or  he  was  actually  unwell. 

"Speak,  I  say!"  again  thunder' d  Lugare;  and  his  hand,  grasping  his 
ratan,  tower' d  above  his  head  in  a  very  significant  manner. 

"I  hardly  can,  sir,"  said  the  poor  fellow  faintly.  His  voice  was  husky 
and  thick.  "I  will  tell  you  some — some  other  time.  Please  let  me  go  to 
my  seat  —  I  a' n't  well." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  that's  very  likely  ;  "  and  Mr.  Lugare  bulged  out  his  nose  and 
cheeks  with  contempt.  "Do  you  think  to  make  me  believe  your  lies? 
Fve  found  you  out,  sir,  plainly  enough  ;  and  I  am  satisfied  that  you  are  as 
precious  a  little  villain  as  there  is  in  the  State.  But  I  will  postpone  settling 
with  you  for  an  hour  yet.  I  shall  then  call  you  up  again  ;  and  if  you 
don't  tell  the  whole  truth  then,  I  will  give  you  something  that'll  make  you 
remember  Mr.  Nichols's  melons  for  many  a  month  to  come  :  —  go  to  your 
-~at." 

Glad  enough  of  the  ungracious  permission,  and  answering  not  a  sound, 
the  child  crept  tremblingly  to  his  bench.  He  felt  very  strangely,  dizzily- 
more  as  if  he  was  in  a  dream  than  in  real  life  j  and  laying  his  arms  on  his 
desk,  bow'd  down  his  face  between  them.  The  pupils  turn'd  to  their 
accustom' d  studies,  for  during  the  reign  of  Lugare  in  the  village-school, 
they  had  been  so  used  to  scenes  of  violence  and  severe  chastisement,  that 
such  things  made  but  little  interruption  in  the  tenor  of  their  way. 

Now,  while  the  intervening  hour  is  passing,  we  will  clear  up  the  mystery 
of  the  bag,  and  of  young  Barker  being  under  the  garden  fence  on  the  pre 
ceding  night.  The  boy's  mother  was  a  widow,  and  they  both  had  to  live 
in  the  very  narrowest  limits.  His  father  had  died  when  he  was  six  years 
old,  and  little  Tim  was  left  a  sickly  emaciated  infant  whom  no  one  ex 
pected  to  live  many  months.  To  the  surprise  of  all,  however,  the  poor 
child  kept  alive,  and  seem'd  to  recover  his  health,  as  he  certainly  did  his 
size  and  good  looks.  This  was  owing  to  the  kind  offices  of  an  eminent 
physician  who  had  a  country-seat  in  the  neighborhood,  and  who  had  been 
interested  in  the  widow's  little  family.  Tim,  the  physician  said,  might 
possibly  outgrow  his  disease}  but  everything  was  uncertain.  It  was  a 


COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

mysterious  and  baffling  malady  ;  and  it  would  not  be  wonderful  if  he 
should  in  some  moment  of  apparent  health  be  suddenly  taken  away.  The 
poor  widow  was  at  first  in  a  continual  state  of  uneasiness  ;  but  several  years 
had  now  pass'd,  and  none  of  the  impending  evils  had  fallen  upon  the  boy's 
head.  His  mother  seem'd  to  feel  confident  that  he  would  live,  and  be  a 
help  and  an  honor  to  her  old  age  ;  and  the  two  struggled  on  together, 
mutually  happy  in  each  other,  and  enduring  much  of  poverty  and  discom 
fort  without  repining,  each  for  the  other' s  sake. 

Tim's  pleasant  disposition  had  made  him  many  friends  in  the  village, 
and  among  the  rest  a  young  farmer  named  Jones,  who,  with  his  elder 
brother,  work'd  a  large  farm  in  the  neighborhood  on  shares.  Jones  very 
frequently  made  Tim  a  present  of  a  bag  of  potatoes  or  corn,  or  some 
garden  vegetables,  which  he  took  from  his  own  stock  }  but  as  his  partner 
was  a  parsimonious,  high-tempered  man,  and  had  often  said  that  Tim  was 
an  idle  fellow,  and  ought  not  to  be  help'd  because  he  did  not  work,  Jones 
generally  made  his  gifts  in  such  a  manner  that  no  one  knew  anything  about 
them,  except  himself  and  the  grateful  objects  of  his  kindness.  It  might 
be,  too,  that  the  widow  was  loth  to  have  it  understood  by  the  neighbors 
that  she  received  food  from  anyone  j  for  there  is  often  an  excusable  pride 
in  people  of  her  condition  which  makes  them  shrink  from  being  consider' d 
as  objects  of  " charity"  as  they  would  from  the  severest  pains.  On  the 
night  in  question,  Tim  had  been  told  that  Jones  would  send  them  a  bag  of 
potatoes,  and  the  place  at  which  they  were  to  be  waiting  for  him  was  fixed 
at  Mr.  Nichols's  garden-fence.  It  was  this  bag  that  Tim  had  been  seen 
staggering  under,  and  which  caused  the  unlucky  boy  to  be  accused  and 
convicted  by  his  teacher  as  a  thief.  That  teacher  was  one  little  fitted  for 
his  important  and  responsible  office.  Hasty  to  decide,  and  inflexibly  severe, 
he  was  the  terror  of  the  little  world  he  ruled  so  despotically.  Punishment 
he  seemed  to  delight  in.  Knowing  little  of  those  sweet  fountains  which 
in  children's  breasts  ever  open  quickly  at  the  call  of  gentleness  and  kind 
words,  he  was  fear'd  by  all  for  his  sternness,  and  loved  by  none.  I  would 
that  he  were  an  isolated  instance  in  his  profession. 

The  hour  of  grace  had  drawn  to  its  close,  and  the  time  approach' d  at 
which  it  was  usual  for  Lugare  to  give  his  school  a  joyfully-receiv'd  dismis 
sion.  Now  and  then  one  of  the  scholars  would  direct  a  furtive  glance  at 
Tim,  sometimes  in  pity,  sometimes  in  indifference  or  inquiry.  They  knew 
that  he  would  have  no  mercy  shown  him,  and  though  most  of  them  loved 
him,  whipping  was  too  common  there  to  exact  much  sympathy.  Every 
inquiring  glance,  however,  remain' d  unsatisfied,  for  at  the  end  of  the  hour, 
Tim  remain' d  with  his  face  completely  hidden,  and  his  head  bow'd  in  his 
arms,  precisely  as  he  had  lean'd  himself  when  he  first  went  to  his  seat. 
Lugare  look'd  at  the  boy  occasionally  with  a  scowl  which  seem'd  to  bode 
vengeance  for  his  sullenness.  At  length  the  last  class  had  been  heard,  and 
the  last  lesson  recited,  and  Lugare  seated  himself  behind  his  desk  on  the 
platform,  with  his  longest  and  stoutest  ratan  before  him. 

"Now,  Barker,"  he  said,  "we'll  settle  that  little  business  of  yours. 
Just  step  up  here." 

Tim  did  not  move.  The  school-room  was  as  still  as  the  grave.  Not  a 
sound  was  to  be  heard,  except  occasionally  a  long-drawn  breath. 


COLLECT  339 

"  Mind  me,  sir,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you.  Step  up  here,  and  take 
off  your  jacket !" 

The  boy  did  not  stir  any  more  than  if  he  had  been  of  wood.  Lugare 
shook  with  passion.  He  sat  still  a  minute,  as  if  considering  the  best  way 
to  wreak  his  vengeance.  That  minute,  passed  in  death-like  silence,  was  a 
fearful  one  to  some  of  the  children,  for  their  faces  whiten' d  with  fright. 
It  seem'd,  as  it  slowly  dropp'd  away,  like  the  minute  which  precedes  the 
climax  of  an  exquisitely-performed  tragedy,  when  some  mighty  master  of 
the  histrionic  art  is  treading  the  stage,  and  you  and  the  multitude  around 
you  are  waiting,  with  stretch' d  nerves  and  suspended  breath,  in  expectation 
of  the  terrible  catastrophe. 

"Tim  is  asleep,  sir,"  at  length  said  one  of  the  boys  who  sat  near  him. 

Lugare,  at  this  intelligence,  allow' d  his  features  to  relax  from  their  ex 
pression  of  savage  anger  into  a  smile,  but  that  smile  look'd  more  malignant 
if  possible,  than  his  former  scowls.  It  might  be  that  he  felt  amused  at  the 
horror  depicted  on  the  faces  of  those  about  him  ;  or  it  might  be  that  he 
was  gloating  in  pleasure  on  the  way  in  which  he  intended  to  wake  the 
slumberer. 

"Asleep!  are  you,  my  young  gentleman!"  said  he  ;  "let  us  see  if  we 
can't  find  something  to  tickle  your  eyes  open.  There's  nothing  like  mak 
ing  the  best  of  a  bad  case,  boys.  Tim,  here,  is  determined  not  to  be 
worried  in  his  mind  about  a  little  flogging,  for  the  thought  of  it  can't  even 
keep  the  little  scoundrel  awake." 

Lugare  smiled  again  as  he  made  the  last  observation.  He  grasp' d  his 
ratan  firmly,  and  descended  from  his  seat.  With  light  and  stealthy  steps 
he  cross' d  the  room  and  stood  by  the  unlucky  sleeper.  The  boy  was  still 
as  unconscious  of  his  impending  punishment  as  ever.  He  might  be  dream 
ing  some  golden  dream  of  youth  and  pleasure  ;  perhaps  he  was  far  away  in 
the  world  of  fancy,  seeing  scenes,  and  feeling  delights,  which  cold  reality 
never  can  bestow.  Lugare  lifted  his  ratan  high  over  his  head,  and  with 
the  true  and  expert  aim  which  he  had  acquired  by  long  practice,  brought 
it  down  on  Tim's  back  with  a  force  and  whacking  sound  which  seem'd 
sufficient  to  wake  a  freezing  man  in  his  last  lethargy.  Quick  and  fast,  blow 
follow' d  blow.  Without  waiting  to  see  the  effect  of  the  first  cut,  the  brutal 
wretch  plied  his  instrument  of  torture  first  on  one  side  of  the  boy's  back, 
and  then  on  the  other,  and  only  stopped  at  the  end  of  two  or  three  minutes 
from  very  weariness.  But  still  Tim  show'd  no  signs  of  motion;  and  as 
Lugare,  provoked  at  his  torpidity,  jerk'd  away  one  of  the  child's  arms,  on 
which  he  had  been  leaning  over  the  desk,  his  head  dropp'd  down  on  the 
board  with  a  dull  sound,  and  his  face  lay  turn'd  up  and  exposed  to  view. 
When  Lugare  saw  it,  he  stood  like  one  transfix' d  by  a  basilisk.  His  coun 
tenance  turn'd  to  a  leaden  whiteness  ;  the  ratan  dropp'd  from  his  grasp  ;  and 
his  eyes,  stretch' d  wide  open,  glared  as  at  some  monstrous  spectacle  of 
horror  and  death.  The  sweat  started  in  great  globules  seemingly  from 
every  pore  in  his  face;  his  skinny  lips  contracted,  and  show'd  his  teeth  ; 
and  when  he  at  length  stretch' d  forth  his  arm,  and  with  the  end  of  one  of 
his  fingers  touch' d  the  child's  cheek,  each  limb  quiver' d  like  the  tongue  of 
a  snake  ;  and  his  strength  seemed  as  though  it  would  momentarily  fail  him. 
The  boy  was  dead.  He  had  probably  been  so  for  some  time,  for  his  eyes 


340  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

were  turn'd  up,  and  his  body  was  quite  cold.  Death  was  in  the  school 
room,  and  Lugare  had  been  flogging  A  CORPSE. 

— 'Democratic  Review,  ^August,  1841. 

ONE   WICKED  IM-  That  section  of  Nassau  street  which  runs  into 

PULSE  !  the    great  mart  of  New  York  brokers  and 

stock-jobbers,  has  for  a  long  time  been  much 

occupied  by  practitioners  of  the  law.  Tolerably  well-known  amid  this 
class  some  years  since,  was  Adam  Covert,  a  middle-aged  man  of  rather 
limited  means,  who,  to  tell  the  truth,  gained  more  by  trickery  than  he  did 
in  the  legitimate  and  honorable  exercise  of  his  profession.  He  was  a  tall, 
bilious-faced  widower  j  the  father  of  two  children  ;  and  had  lately  been  seek 
ing  to  better  his  fortunes  by  a  rich  marriage.  But  somehow  or  other  his 
wooing  did  not  seem  to  thrive  well,  and,  with  perhaps  one  exception,  the 
lawyer's  prospects  in  the  matrimonial  way  were  hopelessly  gloomy. 

Among  the  early  clients  of  Mr.  Covert  had  been  a  distant  relative  named 
Marsh,  who,  dying  somewhat  suddenly,  left  his  son  and  daughter,  and  some 
little  property,  to  the  care  of  Covert,  under  a  will  drawn  out  by  that  gentle 
man  himself.  At  no  time  caught  without  his  eyes  open,  the  cunning  law 
yer,  aided  by  much  sad  confusion  in  the  emergency  which  had  caused  his 
services  to  be  called  for,  and  disguising  his  object  under  a  cloud  of  techni 
calities,  inserted  provisions  in  the  will,  giving  himself  an  almost  arbitrary 
control  over  the  property  and  over  those  for  whom  it  was  designed.  This 
control  was  even  made  to  extend  beyond  the  time  when  the  children  would 
arrive  at  mature  age.  The  son,  Philip,  a  spirited  and  high-temper' d  fellow, 
had  some  time  since  pass'd  that  age.  Esther,  the  girl,  a  plain,  and  some 
what  devotional  young  woman,  was  in  her  nineteenth  year. 

Having  such  power  over  his  wards,  Covert  did  not  scruple  openly  to  use 
his  advantage,  in  pressing  his  claims  as  a  suitor  for  Esther's  hand.  Since 
the  death  of  Marsh,  the  property  he  left,  which  had  been  in  real  estate,  and 
was  to  be  divided  equally  between  the  brother  and  sister,  had  risen  to  very 
considerable  value  ;  and  Esther's  share  was  to  a  man  in  Covert's  situation 
a  prize  very  well  worth  seeking.  All  this  time,  while  really  owning  a 
respectable  income,  the  young  orphans  often  felt  the  want  of  the  smallest 
sum  of  money  —  and  Esther,  on  Philip's  account,  was  more  than  once 
driven  to  various  contrivances  —  the  pawn-shop,  sales  of  her  own  little 
luxuries,  and  the  like,  to  furnish  him  with  means. 

Though  she  had  frequently  shown  her  guardian  unequivocal  evidence  of 
her  aversion,  Esther  continued  to  suffer  from  his  persecutions,  until  one  day 
he  proceeded  farther  and  was  more  pressing  than  usual.  She  possess'  d  some 
of  her  brother's  mettlesome  temper,  and  gave  him  an  abrupt  and  most  de 
cided  refusal.  With  dignity,  she  exposed  the  baseness  of  his  conduct,  and 
forbade  him  ever  again  mentioning  marriage  to  her.  He  retorted  bitterly, 
vaunted  his  hold  on  her  and  Philip,  and  swore  an  oath  that  unless  she 
became  his  wife,  they  should  both  thenceforward  become  penniless.  Losing 
his  habitual  self-control  in  his  exasperation,  he  even  added  insults  such  as 
woman  never  receives  from  any  one  deserving  the  name  of  man,  and  at  his 
own  convenience  left  the  house.  That  day,  Philip  return' d  to  New  York, 


COLLECT  341 

after  an  absence  of  several  weeks  on  the  business  of  a  mercantile  house  in 
whose  employment  he  had  lately  engaged. 

Toward  the  latter  part  of  the  same  afternoon,  Mr.  Covert  was  sitting  in 
his  office,  in  Nassau  street,  busily  at  work,  when  a  knock  at  the  door 
announced  a  visitor,  and  directly  afterward  young  Marsh  enter' d  the  room. 
His  face  exhibited  a  peculiar  pallid  appearance  that  did  not  strike  Covert  at 
all  agreeably,  and  he  called  his  clerk  from  an  adjoining  room,  and  gave  him 
something  to  do  at  a  desk  near  by. 

"I  wish  to  see  you  alone,  Mr.  Covert,  if  convenient,"  said  the  new 
comer. 

"We  can  talk  quite  well  enough  where  we  are,"  answered  the  lawyer  ; 
"indeed,  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  leisure  to  talk  at  all,  for  just  now  I 
am  very  much  press' d  with  business." 

"  But  I  must  speak  to  you,"  rejoined  Philip  sternly,  "at  least  I  must  say 
one  thing,  and  that  is,  Mr.  Covert,  that  you  are  a  villain  ! " 

"Insolent  !"  exclaimed  the  lawyer,  rising  behind  the  table,  and  pointing 
to  the  door.  "Do  you  see  that,  sir?  Let  one  minute  longer  find  you  the 
other  side,  or  your  feet  may  reach  the  landing  by  quicker  method.  Begone, 
sir!" 

Such  a  threat  was  the  more  harsh  to  Philip,  for  he  had  rather  high-strung 
feelings  of  honor.  He  grew  almost  livid  with  suppress' d  agitation. 

"I  will  see  you  again  very  soon,"  said  he,  in  a  low  but  distinct  manner, 
his  lips  trembling  as  he  spoke  ;  and  left  the  office. 

The  incidents  of  the  rest  of  that  pleasant  summer  day  left  little  impres 
sion  on  the  young  man's  mind.  He  roam'd  to  and  fro  without  any  object 
or  destination.  Along  South  street  and  by  Whitehall,  he  watch' d  with 
curious  eyes  the  movements  of  the  shipping,  and  the  loading  and  unloading 
of  cargoes  j  and  listen' d  to  the  merry  heave-yo  of  the  sailors  and  stevedores. 
There  are  some  minds  upon  which  great  excitement  produces  the  singular 
effect  of  uniting  two  utterly  inconsistent  faculties  —  a  sort  ot  cold  apathy, 
and  a  sharp  sensitiveness  to  all  that  is  going  on  at  the  same  time.  Philip's 
was  one  of  this  sort  j  he  noticed  the  various  differences  in  the  apparel  of^  a 
gang  of  wharf-laborers  —  turn'd  over  in  his  brain  whether  they  received 
wages  enough  to  keep  them  comfortable,  and  their  families  also  —  and  if 
they  had  families  or  not,  which  he  tried  to  tell  by  their  looks.  In  such 
petty  reflections  the  daylight  passed  away.  And  all  the  while  the  master 
wish  of  Philip's  thoughts  was  a  desire  to  see  the  lawyer  Covert.  For  what 
purpose  he  himself  was  by  no  means  clear. 

Nightfall  came  at  last.  Still,  however,  the  young  man  did  not  direct  his 
steps  homeward.  He  felt  more  calm,  however,  and  entering  an  eating 
house,  order' d  something  for  his  supper,  which,  when  it  was  brought  to 
him,  he  merely  tasted,  and  stroll' d  forth  again.  There  was  a  kind  of 
gnawing  sensation  of  thirst  within  him  yet,  and  as  he  pass'd  a  hotel,  he  be 
thought  him  that  one  little  glass  of  spirits  would  perhaps  be  just  the  thing. 
He  drank,  and  hour  after  hour  wore  away  unconsciously  ;  he  drank  not  one 
glass,  but  three  or  four,  and  strong  glasses  they  were  to  him,  for  he  was 
habitually  abstemious. 

It  had  been  a  hot  day  and  evening,  and  when  Philip,  at  an  advanced 


342  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

period  of  the  night,  emerged  from  the  bar-room  into  the  street,  he  found 
that  a  thunderstorm  had  just  commenced.  He  resolutely  walked  on,  how 
ever,  although  at  every  step  it  grew  more  and  more  blustering. 

The  rain  now  pour'd  down  a  cataract ;  the  shops  were  all  shut  ;  few  of 
the  street  lamps  were  lighted  ;  and  there  was  little  except  the  frequent 
flashes  of  lightning  to  show  him  his  way.  When  about  half  the  length  of 
Chatham  street,  which  lay  in  the  direction  he  had  to  take,  the  momentary 
fury  of  the  tempest  forced  him  to  turn  aside  into  a  sort  of  shelter  form1  d  by 
the  corners  of  the  deep  entrance  to  a  Jew  pawnbroker's  shop  there.  He  had 
hardly  drawn  himself  in  as  closely  as  possible,  when  the  lightning  revealed 
to  him  that  the  opposite  corner  of  the  nook  was  tenanted  also. 

"A  sharp  rain,  this,"  said  the  other  occupant,  who  simultaneously 
beheld  Philip. 

The  voice  sounded  to  the  young  man's  ears  a  note  which  almost  made 
him  sober  again.  It  was  certainly  the  voice  of  Adam  Covert.  He  made 
some  commonplace  reply,  and  waited  for  another  flash  of  lightning  to  show 
him  the  stranger's  face.  It  came,  and  he  saw  that  his  companion  was 
indeed  his  guardian. 

Philip  Marsh  had  drank  deeply  —  (let  us  plead  all  that  may  be  possible 
to  you,  stern  moralist. )  Upon  his  mind  came  swarming,  and  he  could  not 
drive  them  away,  thoughts  of  all  those  insults  his  sister  had  told  him  of,  and 
the  bitter  words  Covert  had  spoken  to  her ;  he  reflected,  too,  on  the  injuries 
Esther  as  well  as  himself  had  receiv'd,  and  were  still  likely  to  receive,  at 
the  hands  of  that  bold,  bad  man  $  how  mean,  selfish,  and  unprincipled  was 
his  character  —  what  base  and  cruel  advantages  he  had  taken  of  many  poor 
people,  entangled  in  his  power,  and  of  how  much  wrong  and  suffering  he 
had  been  the  author,  and  might  be  again  through  future  years.  The  very 
turmoil  of  the  elements,  the  harsh  roll  of  the  thunder,  the  vindictive  beating 
of  the  rain,  and  the  fierce  glare  of  the  wild  fluid  that  seem'd  to  riot  in  the 
ferocity  of  the  storm  around  him,  kindled  a  strange  sympathetic  fury  in  the 
young  man's  mind.  Heaven  itself  (so  deranged  were  his  imaginations) 
appear' d  to  have  provided  a  fitting  scene  and  time  for  a  deed  of  retribution, 
which  to  his  disorder' d  passion  half  wore  the  semblance  of  a  divine  justice. 
He  remember' d  not  the  ready  solution  to  be  found  in  Covert's  pressure  of 
business,  which  had  no  doubt  kept  him  later  than  usual  j  but  fancied  some 
mysterious  intent  in  the  ordaining  that  he  should  be  there,  and  that  they  two 
should  meet  at  that  untimely  hour.  All  this  whirl  of  influence  came  over 
Philip  with  startling  quickness  at  that  horrid  moment.  He  stepp'd  to  the 
side  of  his  guardian. 

"  Ho  !  "  said  he,  "have  we  met  so  soon,  Mr.  Covert  ?  You  traitor  to 
my  dead  father  —  robber  of  his  children  !  I  fear  to  think  on  what  I  think 
now  ! " 

The  lawyer's  natural  effrontery  did  not  desert  him. 

"Unless  you'd  like  to  spend  a  night  in  the  watch-house,  young  gentle 
man,"  said  he,  after  a  short  pause,  "move  on.  Your  father  was  a  weak 
man,  I  remember  ;  as  for  his  son,  his  own  wicked  heart  is  his  worst  foe.  I 
have  never  done  wrong  to  either  —  that  I  can  say,  and  swear  it  !  " 

"Insolent  liar  !"  exclaimed  Philip,  his  eye  flashing  out  sparks  of  fire  in 
the  darkness. 


COLLECT  343 

Covert  made  no  reply  except  a  cool,  contemptuous  laugh,  which  stung 
the  excited  young  man  to  double  fury.  He  sprang  upon  the  lawyer,  and 
clutch' d  him  by  the  neckcloth. 

"Take  it,  then  !'"  he  cried  hoarsely,  for  his  throat  was  impeded  by  the 
fiendish  rage  which  in  that  black  hour  possess' d  him.  "You  are  not  fit  to 
live  ! '  * 

He  dragg'd  his  guardian  to  the  earth  and  fell  crushingly  upon  him, 
choking  the  shriek  the  poor  victim  but  just  began  to  utter.  Then,  with 
monstrous  imprecations,  he  twisted  a  tight  knot  around  the  gasping  crea 
ture's  neck,  drew  a  clasp  knife  from  his  pocket,  and  touching  the  spring, 
the  long  sharp  blade,  too  eager  for  its  bloody  work,  flew  open. 

During  the  lull  of  the  storm,  the  last  strength  of  the  prostrate  man  burst 
forth  into  one  short  loud  cry  of  agony.  At  the  same  instant,  the  arm  of 
the  murderer  thrust  the  blade,  once,  twice,  thrice,  deep  in  his  enemy's 
bosom  !  Not  a  minute  had  passed  since  that  fatal  exasperating  laugh  — 
but  the  deed  was  done,  and  the  instinctive  thought  which  came  at  once  to 
the  guilty  one,  was  a  thought  of  fear  and  escape. 

In  the  unearthly  pause  which  follow' d,  Philip's  eyes  gave  one  long  search 
ing  sweep  in  every  direction,  above  and  around  him.  <rfbove  !  God  of  the 
all-seeing  eye  !  What,  and  who  was  that  figure  there  ? 

"Forbear  !  In  Jehovah's  name  forbear  ;  "  cried  a  shrill,  but  clear  and 
melodious  voice. 

It  was  as  if  some  accusing  spirit  had  come  down  to  bear  witness  against 
the  deed  of  blood.  Leaning  far  out  of  an  open  window,  appear' d  a  white 
draperied  shape,  its  face  possess' d  of  a  wonderful  youthful  beauty.  Long 
vivid  glows  of  lightning  gave  Philip  a  full  opportunity  to  see  as  clearly  as 
though  the  sun  had  been  shining  at  noonday.  One  hand  of  the  figure  was 
raised  upward  in  a  deprecating  attitude,  and  his  large  bright  black  eyes  bent 
down  upon  the  scene  below  with  an  expression  of  horror  and  shrinking  pain. 
Such  heavenly  looks,  and  the  peculiar  circumstance  of  the  time,  fill'd 
Philip's  heart  with  awe. 

"Oh,  if  it  is  not  yet  too  late,"  spoke  the  youth  again,  "spare  him. 
In  God's  voice,  I  command,  'Thou  shalt  do  no  murder  !'  ' 

The  words  rang  like  a  knell  in  the  ear  of  the  terror-stricken  and  already 
remorseful  Philip.  Springing  from  the  body,  he  gave  a  second  glance  up 
and  down  the  walk,  which  was  totally  lonesome  and  deserted  ;  then  cross 
ing  into  Reade  street,  he  made  his  fearful  way  in  a  half  state  of  stupor, 
half-bewilderment,  by  the  nearest  avenues  to  his  home. 

When  the  corpse  of  the  murder' d  lawyer  was  found  in  the  morning,  and 
the  officers  of  justice  commenced  their  inquiry,  suspicion  immediately  fell 
upon  Philip,  and  he  was  arrested.  The  most  rigorous  search,  however, 
brought  to  light  nothing  at  all  implicating  the  young  man,  except  his  visit  to 
Covert's  office  the  evening  before,  and  his  angry  language  there.  That 
was  by  no  means  enough  to  fix  so  heavy  a  charge  upon  him. 

The  second  day  afterward,  the  whole  business  came  before  the  ordinary 
judicial  tribunal,  in  order  that  Philip  might  be  either  committed  for  the 
crime,  or  discharged.  The  testimony  of  Mr.  Covert's  clerk  stood  alone. 
One  of  his  employers,  who,  believing  in  his  innocence,  had  deserted  him 
not  in  this  crisis,  had  provided  him  with  the  ablest  criminal  counsel  in  New 


344  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

York.      The  proof  was  declared  entirely  insufficient,  and  Philip  was  dis 
charged. 

The  crowded  court-room  made  way  for  him  as  he  came  out }  hundreds 
of  curious  looks  fixed  upon  his  features,  and  many  a  jibe  pass'd  upon  him. 
But  of  all  that  arena  of  human  faces,  he  saw  only  one  —  a  sad,  pale,  black- 
eyed  one,  cowering  in  the  centre  of  the  rest.  He  had  seen  that  face  twice 
before  —  the  first  time  as  a  warning  spectre  —  the  second  time  in  prison, 
immediately  after  his  arrest  —  now  for  the  last  time.  This  young  stranger 
—  the  son  of  a  scorn1  d  race  —  coming  to  the  court-room  to  perform  an  un 
happy  duty,  with  the  intention  of  testifying  to  what  he  had  seen,  melted  at 
the  sight  of  Philip's  bloodless  cheek,  and  of  his  sister's  convulsive  sobs,  and 
forbore  witnessing  against  the  murderer.  Shall  we  applaud  or  condemn 
him  ?  Let  every  reader  answer  the  question  for  himself. 

That  afternoon  Philip  left  New  York.  His  friendly  employer  own'd  a 
small  farm  some  miles  up  the  Hudson,  and  until  the  excitement  of  the  affair 
was  over,  he  advised  the  young  man  to  go  thither.  Philip  thankfully 
accepted  the  proposal,  made  a  few  preparations,  took  a  hurried  leave  of 
Esther,  and  by  nightfall  was  settled  in  his  new  abode. 

And  how,  think  you,  rested  Philip  Marsh  that  night  ?  Tested  indeed  ! 
O,  if  those  who  clamor  so  much  for  the  halter  and  the  scaffold  to  punish 
crime,  could  have  seen  that  sight,  they  might  have  learn' d  a  lesson  then  ! 
Four  days  had  elapsed  since  he  that  lay  tossing  upon  the  bed  there  had 
slumber' d.  Not  the  slightest  intermission  had  come  to  his  awaken' d  and 
tensely  strung  sense,  during  those  frightful  days. 

Disturb' d  waking  dreams  came  to  him,  as  he  thought  what  he  might  do 
to  gain  his  lost  peace.  Far,  far  away  would  he  go  !  The  cold  roll  of  the 
murder' d  man's  eye,  as  it  turn'd  up  its  last  glance  into  his  face  —  the  shrill 
exclamation  of  pain  —  all  the  unearthly  vividness  of  the  posture,  motions, 
and  looks  of  the  dead  —  the  warning  voice  from  above  —  pursued  him  like 
tormenting  furies,  and  were  never  absent  from  his  mind,  asleep  or  awake, 
that  long  weary  night.  Anything,  any  place,  to  escape  such  horrid  com 
panionship  !  He  would  travel  inland  —  hire  himself  to  do  hard  drudgery 
upon  some  farm  —  work  incessantly  through  the  wide  summer  days,  and 
thus  force  nature  to  bestow  oblivion  upon  his  senses,  at  least  a  little  while 
now  and  then.  He  would  fly  on,  on,  on,  until  amid  different  scenes  and 
a  new  life,  the  old  memories  were  rubb'd  entirely  out.  He  would  fight 
bravely  in  himself  for  peace  of  mind.  For  peace  he  would  labor  and  strug 
gle  —  for  peace  he  would  pray  ! 

At  length  after  a  feverish  slumber  of  some  thirty  or  forty  minutes,  the 
unhappy  youth,  waking  with  a  nervous  start,  rais'd  himself  in  bed,  and 
saw  the  blessed  daylight  beginning  to  dawn.  He  felt  the  sweat  trickling 
down  his  naked  breast ;  the  sheet  where  he  had  lain  was  quite  wet  with  it. 
Dragging  himself  wearily,  he  open'd  the  window.  Ah  !  that  good  morn 
ing  air  —  how  it  refresh'  d  him  —  how  he  lean'  d  out,  and  drank  in  the 
fragrance  of  the  blossoms  below,  and  almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  felt 
how  beautifully  indeed  God  had  made  the  earth,  and  that  there  was  won 
derful  sweetness  in  mere  existence.  And  amidst  the  thousand  mute 
mouths  and  eloquent  eyes,  which  appear' d  as  it  were  to  look  up  and  speak 
in  every  direction,  he  fancied  so  many  invitations  to  come  among  them. 


COLLECT  345 

Not  without  effort,  for  he  was  very  weak,  he  dress'  d  himself,  and  issued 

'"Cloud:  of'  pTgtld  and  transparent  crimson  draperied  the  eastern  sky 
but  the  sun,  whose  face  gladden"  d  them  into  all  that  glory,  was  not  yet 
above  the  horizon.     It  was  a  time  and  place  of  such  rare   such  Eden-l.ke 
beauty'     Philip  paused  at  the  summit  of  an  upward  slope,  and  gazed 
around 'him       Some  few  miles  off  he  could  see  a  gleam  of  the  Hudson 
"""hove  it  a  spur  of  those  rugged  cliffs  scattered  along  Us  western 
shores.      Nearer  by  were  cultivated  fields.      The  clover  grew -  nchly  there 
he  young  grain  bent  to  the  early  breeze,  and  the  air  was  filled  w,th  an 
ntoxicating  perfume.      At  his  side  was  the  large  well-kept  garden  of  h,s 
host!  in  whicPh  were  many  pretty  flowers,  grass  plots,  and  a  w.de  avenue  of 
noble  trees.      As  Philip  gazed,  the  holy  calmmg  power  of  Nature -the 
invisible  spirit  of  so  much  beauty  and  so  much  mnocence,  melted  into  h, 
soul       The  disturb' d  passions  and  the  fevensh  confl.ct  subsided       He  even 
fch  something  like  envied  peace  of  mind- a  sort  of  joy  even  m  the  pres 
ence  of  all  the  unmarr'd  goodness.      It  was  as  fa,r  to  him,  gu.lty  though  h, 
had  been,  as  to  the  purest  of  the  pure.      No  accusmg  frowns  show  d  ,n  the 
face  of  the  flowers,  or  in  the  green  shrubs,  or  the  branches  of  the  trees. 
They    more  forgiving  than  mankind,  and  distinguishing  not  between  the 
AiMr'en  of  darkness  and  the  children  of  light -they  at  least  treated  him 
with  gentleness.     Was  he,  then,  a  being  so  accurs  d  ?     Involuntanly,  he 
bent  over  a  branch  of  red  roses,  and  took  them  softly  between  his  hands  - 
those  murderous,  bloody  hands  !     But  the  red  roses  ne.ther  w.ther  d  nor 
smelPd  less  fragiant.      And  as  the  young  man  kiss  d  them,  and  dropp  da 
Tar  upon  them,  it  seem'd  to  him  that  he  had  found  pity  and  sympathy 
from  Heaven  itself. 

Though  against  all  the  rules  of  story-writing,  we  continue  our  narrativ 
of  these  mainly  true  incidents  (for  such  they  are,)  no  further       Only  to  say 
that  the  murderer  soon  departed  for  a  new  field  of  action -that  he  i 
livine  — and  that  this  is  but  one  of  thousands  of  cases  of  unravel  d,  unpun- 
ish'd  crime -left,  not  to  the  tribunals  of  man,  but  to  a  wider  power  and 
judgment. 

THE  LAST  LOYALIST      The  story  I  am  going  to  tell  is  a  traditional 
"She  came  to  me  last  night,         reminiscence  of  a  country  place,  in  my ^ram 
The  floor  gave  back  no  tread."      bles   about   which   I    have  often    passed    th< 
house,  now  unoccupied,  and  mostly  in  rums, 

that  was  the  scene  of  the  transaction.      I   cannot,  of  course,  convey  t 
others  that  particular  kind  of  influence  which  ,s  derived  from  my  being  sc 
familiar  with  the  locality,  and  with  the  very  people  whose  gram  fa    ers  or 
fathers  were  contemporaries  of  the  actors  in  the  drama  I  shal »  transcr  b 
I  must  hardly  expect,  therefore,  that  to  those  who  hear  it  thro    the  medn  m 
of  my  pen,  the  narration  will  possess  as  life-like  and  interesting  a  cl 

^  On  rLrge^nd6  fertile  neck  of  land  that  juts  out  in  the  Sound,  stretching 
to  the  east  of  New  York  city,  there  stood,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  last 
century,  an  old-fashion' d  country-residence.      It  had  been  built  by  one  c 
the  first  settlers  of  this  section  of  the  New  World  5  and  its  occupant  was 


346  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

originally  owner  of  the  extensive  tract  lying  adjacent  to  his  house,  and 
pushing  into  the  bosom  of  the  salt  waters.  It  was  during  the  troubled 
times  which  mark'd  our  American  Revolution  that  the  incidents  occurred 
which  are  the  foundation  of  my  story.  Some  time  before  the  commence 
ment  of  the  war,  the  owner,  whom  I  shall  call  Vanhome,  was  taken  sick 
and  died.  For  some  time  before  his  death  he  had  lived  a  widower  ;  and 
his  only  child,  a  lad  of  ten  years  old,  was  thus  left  an  orphan.  By  his 
father's  will  this  child  was  placed  implicitly  under  the  guardianship  of  an 
uncle,  a  middle-aged  man,  who  had  been  of  late  a  resident  in  the  family. 
His  care  and  interest,  however,  were  needed  but  a  little  while  —  not  two 
years  claps' d  after  the  parents  were  laid  away  to  their  last  repose  before 
another  grave  had  to  be  prepared  for  the  son  —  the  child  who  had  been  so 
haplessly  deprived  of  their  fostering  care. 

The  period  now  arrived  when  the  great  national  convulsion  burst  forth. 
Sounds  of  strife  and  the  clash  of  arms,  and  the  angry  voices  of  disputants, 
were  borne  along  by  the  air,  and  week  after  week  grew  to  still  louder 
clamor.  Families  were  divided  ;  adherents  to  the  crown,  and  ardent  up 
holders  of  the  rebellion,  were  often  found  in  the  bosom  of  the  same  domestic 
circle.  Vanhome,  the  uncle  spoken  of  as  guardian  to  the  young  heir,  was 
a  man  who  leaned  to  the  stern,  the  high-handed  and  the  severe.  He  soon 
became  known  among  the  most  energetic  of  the  loyalists.  So  decided 
were  his  sentiments  that,  leaving  the  estate  which  he  had  inherited  from  his 
brother  and  nephew,  he  join'd  the  forces  of  the  British  king.  Thencefor 
ward,  whenever  his  old  neighbors  heard  of  him,  it  was  as  being  engaged  in 
the  crudest  outrages,  the  boldest  inroads,  or  the  most  determin'd  attacks 
upon  the  army  of  his  countrymen  or  their  peaceful  settlements. 

Eight  years  brought  the  rebel  States  and  their  leaders  to  that  glorious 
epoch  when  the  last  remnant  of  a  monarch's  rule  was  to  leave  their  shores 
—  when  the  last  waving  of  the  royal  standard  was  to  flutter  as  it  should  be 
haul'd  down  from  the  staff,  and  its  place  fill'd  by  the  proud  testimonial  of 
our  warriors'1  success. 

Pleasantly  over  the  autumn  fields  shone  the  November  sun,  when  a  horse 
man,  of  somewhat  military  look,  plodded  slowly  along  the  road  that  led  to 
the  old  Vanhome  farmhouse.  There  was  nothing  peculiar  in  his  attire, 
unless  it  might  be  a  red  scarf  which  he  wore  tied  round  his  waist.  He  was 
a  dark-featured,  sullen-eyed  man  ;  and  as  his  glance  was  thrown  restlessly 
to  the  right  and  left,  his  whole  manner  appear' d  to  be  that  of  a  person 
moving  amid  familiar  and  accustom' d  scenes.  Occasionally  he  stopp'd, 
and  looking  long  and  steadily  at  some  object  that  attracted  his  attention, 
mutter' d  to  himself,  like  one  in  whose  breast  busy  thoughts  were  moving. 
His  course  was  evidently  to  the  homestead  itself,  at  which  in  due  time  he 
arrived.  He  dismounted,  led  his  horse  to  the  stables,  and  then,  without 
knocking,  though  there  were  evident  signs  of  occupancy  around  the  build 
ing,  the  traveler  made  his  entrance  as  composedly  and  boldly  as  though  he 
were  master  of  the  whole  establishment. 

Now  the  house  being  in  a  measure  deserted  for  many  years,  and  the  suc 
cessful  termination  of  the  strife  rendering  it  probable  that  the  Vanhome  es 
tate  would  be  confiscated  to  the  new  government,  an  aged,  poverty-stricken 
couple  had  been  encouraged  by  the  neighbors  to  take  possession  as  tenants 


COLLECT  347 

of  the  place.  Their  name  was  Gills  5  and  these  people  the  traveler  found 
upo  Ms  entrance  were  likely  to  be  his  host  and  hostess  Holding  their 
right  as  they  did  by  so  slight  a  tenure,  they  ventured  to  offer  no  opposition 
when  the  stranger  signified  his  intention  of  passing  several  hours  there 

The  day  wore  on,  and  the  sun  went  down  in  the  west  5  still  the  inter 
loper,  gloomy  and  taciturn,  made  no  signs  of  departing.  But  as  the  even 
ing  advanced  (whether  the  darkness  was  congenial  to  his  sombre  thoughts 
or  whether  it  merely  chanced  so)  he  seemM  to  grow  more  affable  and 
communicative,  and  informed  Gills  that  he  should  pas s  the  nig ht  there, 
tendering  him  at  the  same  time  ample  remuneration,  which  the  1 


rented  with  many  thanks.  .    .  , 

"    "Tell  me  "  said  he  to  his  aged  host,  when  they  were  all  sitting  around 
the  ample  hearth,  at  the  conclusion  of  their  evening  meal,  "tell  me 
thine  to  while  away  the  hours." 

"Ah  •  sir,"  answered  Gills,  "this  is  no  place  for  new  or  interesting 
events  We  live  here  from  year  to  year,  and  at  the  end  of  one  we  find 
ourselves  at  about  the  same  place  which  we  filled  in  the  beginning.  < 

"Can  you  relate  nothing,  then?"  rejoin' d  the  guest,  and  a  singular 
smile  passM  over  his  features  5  "can  you  say  nothing  about  your  own 
ulace  ?  _  this  house  or  its  former  inhabitants,  or  former  history  ? 

The  old  man  glanced  across  to  his  wife,  and  a  look  expressive  of  sym 
pathetic  feeling  started  in  the  face  of  each. 

P  "It  is  an  unfortunate  story,  sir,"  said  Gills,  "and  may  cast  a  chill  upon 
you,  instead  of  the  pleasant  feeling  which  it  would  be  best  to  tost 

m  "SgTwails  !"  echoed  he  of  the  red  scarf,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
his  arrival  he  half  laughed,  but  it  was  not  the  laugh  which  cor 

ma"  YoTmust  know,  sir,"  continued  Gills,  "lam  myself  a  sort  of  intruder 
here  The  Vanhomes  —  that  was  the  name  of  the  former  residents  and 
owners  — I  have  never  seen  ;  for  when  I  came  to  these  parts  the  last  occu 
pant  had  left  to  join  the  red-coat  soldiery.  I  am  told  that  he  is  to  sail  witl 
them  for  foreign  lands,  now  that^the  war  is  ended,  and  his  property  almosi 
certain  to  pass  into  other  hands." 

As  the  old  man  went  on,  the  stranger  cast  down  his  eyes,  and  listen  d 
with  an  appearance  of  great  interest,  though  a  transient  smile  or  a  brighten 
ing  of  the  eye  would  occasionally  disturb  the  serenity  of  his  deportment. 

"The  old  owners  of  this  place,"  continued  the  white-haired  narrator, 
"  were  well  off  in  the  world,  and  bore  a  good  name  among  their  neighbors 
The  brother  of  Sergeant  Vanhome,  now  the  only  one  of  the  name,  died 
or  twelve  years  since,  leaving  a  son -a  child  so  small  that  the  father  s  wil 
made  provision  for  his  being  brought  up  by  his  uncle,  whom  I  mention  d 
but  now  as  of  the  British  army.      He  was  a  strange  man,  this  unc 
liked  by  all  who  knew  him  ;  passionate,  vindictive,  and,  it  was  i  ud,  very 
avaricious,  even  from  his  childhood. 

"  Well    not  long  after  the  death  of  the  parents,  dark  stones  began  to  be 
circulated  about  cruelty  and  punishment  and  whippings  and  starvation  n 
fiicted  by  the  new  master  upon  his  nephew.      People  who  had  business 
the  homestead  would  frequently,  when  they  came  away,  relate  the  mosl 


348  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

fearful  things  of  its  manager,  and  how  he  misused  his  brother's  child.  It 
was  half  hinted  that  he  strove  to  get  the  youngster  out  of  the  way  in  order 
that  the  whole  estate  might  fall  into  his  own  hands.  As  I  told  you  before, 
however,  nobody  liked  the  man ;  and  perhaps  they  judged  him  too  un 
charitably. 

"After  things  had  gone  on  in  this  way  for  some  time,  a  countryman,  a 
laborer,  who  was  hired  to  do  farm-work  upon  the  place,  one  evening  ob 
served  that  the  little  orphan  Vanhome  was  more  faint  and  pale  even  than 
usual,  for  he  was  always  delicate,  and  that  is  one  reason  why  I  think  it 
possible  that  his  death,  of  which  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you,  was  but  the 
result  of  his  own  weak  constitution,  and  nothing  else.  The  laborer  slept 
that  night  at  the  farmhouse.  Just  before  the  time  at  which  they  usually 
retired  to  bed,  this  person,  feeling  sleepy  with  his  day's  toil,  left  the  kitchen 
hearth  and  wended  his  way  to  rest.  In  going  to  his  place  of  repose  he  had 
to  pass  a  chamber  —  the  very  chamber  where  you,  sir,  are  to  sleep  to-night 
—  and  there  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  orphan  child  uttering  half-suppress' d 
exclamations  as  if  in  pitiful  entreaty.  Upon  stopping,  he  heard  also  the 
tones  of  the  elder  Vanhome,  but  they  were  harsh  and  bitter.  The  sound 
of  blows  followed.  As  each  one  fell  it  was  accompanied  by  a  groan  or 
shriek,  and  so  they  continued  for  some  time.  Shock' d  and  indignant,  the 
countryman  would  have  burst  open  the  door  and  interfered  to  prevent  this 
brutal  proceeding,  but  he  bethought  him  that  he  might  get  himself  into 
trouble,  and  perhaps  find  that  he  could  do  no  good  after  all,  and  so  he 
passed  on  to  his  room. 

"Well,  sir,  the  following  day  the  child  did  not  come  out  among  the 
work-people  as  usual.  He  was  taken  very  ill.  No  physician  was  sent  for 
until  the  next  afternoon  ;  and  though  one  arrived  in  the  course  of  the  night, 
it  was  too  late — the  poor  boy  died  before  morning. 

"People  talk'd  threateningly  upon  the  subject,  but  nothing  could  be 
proved  against  Vanhome.  At  one  period  there  were  efforts  made  to  have 
the  whole  affair  investigated.  Perhaps  that  would  have  taken  place,  had 
not  every  one' s  attention  been  swallow'  d  up  by  the  rumors  of  difficulty  and 
war,  which  were  then  beginning  to  disturb  the  country. 

"  Vanhome  joined  the  army  of  the  king.  His  enemies  said  that  he  feared 
to  be  on  the  side  of  the  rebels,  because  if  they  were  routed  his  property 
would  be  taken  from  him.  But  events  have  shown  that,  if  this  was  indeed 
what  he  dreaded,  it  has  happen' d  to  him  from  the  very  means  which  he 
took  to  prevent  it." 

The  old  man  paused.  He  had  quite  wearied  himself  with  so  long  talk 
ing.  For  some  minutes  there  was  unbroken  silence. 

Presently  the  stranger  signified  his  intention  of  retiring  for  the  night. 
He  rose,  and  his  host  took  a  light  for  the  purpose  of  ushering  him  to  his 
apartment. 

When  Gills  return' d  to  his  accustom' d  situation  in  the  large  arm-chair 
by  the  chimney-hearth,  his  ancient  helpmate  had  retired  to  rest.  With  the 
simplicity  of  their  times,  the  bed  stood  in  the  same  room  where  the  three 
had  been  seated  during  the  last  few  hours  ;  and  now  the  remaining  two 
talk'd  together  about  the  singular  events  of  the  evening.  As  the  time  wore 
on,  Gills  show'd  no  disposition  to  leave  his  cosy  chair  j  but  sat  toasting  his 


COLLECT  349 

feet,  and  bending  over  the  coals.  Gradually  the  insidious  heat  and  the 
lateness  of  the  hour  began  to  exercise  their  influence  over  the  old  man. 
The  drowsy  indolent  feeling  which  every  one  has  experienced  in  getting 
thoroughly  heated  through  by  close  contact  with  a  glowing  fire,  spread  in 
each  vein  and  sinew,  and  relax' d  its  tone.  He  lean'd  back  in  his  chair  and 
slept. 

For  a  long  time  his  repose  went  on  quietly  and  soundly.  He  could  not 
tell  how  many  hours  elapsed  ;  but,  a  while  after  midnight,  the  torpid  senses 
of  the  slumberer  were  awaken' d  by  a  startling  shock.  It  was  a  cry  as  of  a 
strong  man  in  his  agony  —  a  shrill,  not  very  loud  cry,  but  fearful,  and 
creeping  into  the  blood  like  cold,  polish' d  steel.  The  old  man  raised  him 
self  in  his  seat  and  listen' d,  at  once  fully  awake.  For  a  minute,  all  was 
the  solemn  stillness  of  midnight.  Then  rose  that  horrid  tone  again,  wail 
ing  and  wild,  and  making  the  hearer's  hair  to  stand  on  end.  One  moment 
more,  and  the  trampling  of  hasty  feet  sounded  in  the  passage  outside.  The 
door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  form  of  the  stranger,  more  like  a  corpse 
than  living  man,  rushed  into  the  room. 

"  All  white  !  "  yell'd  the  conscience-stricken  creature —  "all  white,  and 
with  the  grave-clothes  around  him.  One  shoulder  was  bare,  and  I  saw,"  he 
whisper' d,  "I  saw  blue  streaks  upon  it.  It  was  horrible,  and  I  cried  aloud. 
He  stepp'd  toward  me!  He  came  to  my  very  bedside  ;  his  small  hand 
almost  touch' d  my  face.  I  could  not  bear  it,  and  fled." 

The  miserable  man  bent  his  head  down  upon  his  bosom  j  convulsive 
rattlings  shook  his  throat  j  and  his  whole  frame  waver' d  to  and  fro  like  a 
tree  in  a  storm.  Be  wilder' d  and  shock' d,  Gills  look'd  at  his  apparently 
deranged  guest,  and  knew  not  what  answer  to  make,  or  what  course  of  con 
duct  to  pursue. 

Thrusting  out  his  arms  and  his  extended  fingers,  and  bending  down  his 
eyes,  as  men  do  when  shading  them  from  a  glare  of  lightning,  the  stranger 
stagger' d  from  the  door,  and,  in  a  moment  further,  dash'd  madly  through 
the  passage  which  led  through  the  kitchen  into  the  outer  road.  The  old 
man  heard  the  noise  of  his  falling  footsteps,  sounding  fainter  and  fainter  in 
the  distance,  and  then,  retreating,  dropp'd  his  own  exhausted  limbs  into  the 
chair  from  which  he  had  been  arous'd  so  terribly.  It  was  many  minutes 
before  his  energies  recover' d  their  accustomed  tone  again.  Strangely 
enough,  his  wife,  unawaken'd  by  the  stranger's  ravings,  still  slumber' d 
on  as  profoundly  as  ever. 

Pass  we  on  to  a  far  different  scene  —  the  embarkation  of  the  British 
troops  for  the  distant  land  whose  monarch  was  never  more  to  wield  the 
sceptre  over  a  kingdom  lost  by  his  imprudence  and  tyranny.  With  frown 
ing  brow  and  sullen  pace  the  martial  ranks  moved  on.  Boat  after  boat  was 
filled,  and,  as  each  discharged  its  complement  in  the  ships  that  lay  heaving 
their  anchors  in  the  stream,  it  return' d,  and  was  soon  filled  with  another 
load.  And  at  length  it  became  time  for  the  last  soldier  to  lift  his  eye  and 
take  a  last  glance  at  the  broad  banner  of  England's  pride,  which  flapp'd  its 
folds  from  the  top  of  the  highest  staff  on  the  Battery. 

As  the  warning  sound  of  a  trumpet  called  together  all  who  were  lag 
gards —  those  taking  leave  of  friends,  and  those  who  were  arranging  their 
own  private  affairs,  left  until  the  last  moment  —  a  single  horseman  was 


350  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

seen  furiously  dashing  down  the  street.  A  red  scarf  tightly  encircled  his 
waist.  He  made  directly  for  the  shore,  and  the  crowd  there  gathered 
started  back  in  wonderment  as  they  beheld  his  dishevel' d  appearance  and 
ghastly  face.  Throwing  himself  violently  from  his  saddle,  he  flung  the 
bridle  over  the  animal's  neck,  and  gave  him  a  sharp  cut  with  a  small  rid 
ing  whip.  He  made  for  the  boat  j  one  minute  later,  and  he  had  been  left. 
They  were  pushing  the  keel  from  the  landing  —  the  stranger  sprang  —  a 
space  of  two  or  three  feet  already  intervened — he  struck  on  the  gunwale 
—  and  the  Last  Soldier  of  King  George  had  left  the  American  shores. 

WILD  FRANK' S  RE-  As  the  sun,  one  August  day  some  fifty  years 
TURN  ago,  had  just  pass'd  the  meridian  of  a  coun 

try  town  in  the  eastern  section  of  Long 

Island,  a  single  traveler  came  up  to  the  quaint  low-roof  d  village  tavern, 
open'd  its  half-door,  and  enter' d  the  common  room.  Dust  cover' d  the 
clothes  of  the  wayfarer,  and  his  brow  was  moist  with  sweat.  He  trod  in 
a  lagging,  weary  way  j  though  his  form  and  features  told  of  an  age  not 
more  than  nineteen  or  twenty  years.  Over  one  shoulder  was  slung  a 
sailor's  jacket,  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  little  bundle.  Sitting  down  on 
a  rude  bench,  he  told  a  female  who  made  her  appearance  behind  the  bar, 
that  he  would  have  a  glass  of  brandy  and  sugar.  He  took  off  the  liquor 
at  a  draught  :  after  which  he  lit  and  began  to  smoke  a  cigar,  with  which 
he  supplied  himself  from  his  pocket  — •  stretching  out  one  leg,  and  leaning 
his  elbow  down  on  the  bench,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  takes  an 
indolent  lounge. 

"Do  you  know  one  Richard  Hall  that  lives  somewhere  here  among 
you  ? ' '  said  he. 

"Mr.  Hall's  is  down  the  lane  that  turns  off  by  that  big  locust  tree," 
answer'  d  the  woman,  pointing  to  the  direction  through  the  open  door  ; 
"it's  about  half  a  mile  from  here  to  his  house." 

The  youth,  for  a  minute  or  two,  puff'  d  the  smoke  from  his  mouth  very 
leisurely  in  silence.  His  manner  had  an  air  of  vacant  self-sufficiency, 
rather  strange  in  one  of  so  few  years. 

"I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Hall,"  he  said  at  length — "Here's  a  silver  six 
pence,  for  any  one  who  will  carry  a  message  to  him." 

"The  folks  are  all  away.  It's  but  a  short  walk,  and  your  limbs  are 
young,"  replied  the  female,  who  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  the  easy 
way  of  making  himself  at  home  which  mark'd  her  shabby-looking  cus 
tomer.  That  individual,  however,  seem'd  to  give  small  attention  to  the 
hint,  but  lean'd  and  puff'd  his  cigar-smoke  as  leisurely  as  before. 

"  Unless,"  continued  the  woman,  catching  a  second  glance  at  the  six 
pence;  "unless  old  Joe  is  at  the  stable,  as  he's  very  likely  to  be.  I'll  go 
and  find  out  for  you. ' '  And  she  push'  d  open  a  door  at  her  back,  stepp1  d 
through  an  adjoining  room  into  a  yard,  whence  her  voice  was  the  next 
moment  heard  calling  the  person  she  had  mention' d,  in  accents  by  no 
means  remarkable  for  their  melody  or  softness. 

Her  search  was  successful.  She  soon  return' d  with  him  who  was  to  act 
as  messenger  —  a  little,  wither' d,  ragged  old  man  —  a  hanger-on  there, 
whose  unshaven  face  told  plainly  enough  the  story  of  his  intemperate 


COLLECT  351 

habits  —  those  deeply  seated  habits,  now  too  late  to  be  uprooted,  that 
would  ere  long  lay  him  in  a  drunkard's  grave.  The  youth  inform' d  him 
what  the  required  service  was,  and  promised  him  the  reward  as  soon  as  he 
should  return. 

"  Tell  Richard  Hall  that  I  am  going  to  his  father's  house  this  afternoon. 
If  he  asks  who  it  is  that  wishes  him  here,  say  the  person  sent  no  name," 
continued  the  stranger,  sitting  up  from  his  indolent  posture,  as  the  feet  of 
old  Joe  were  about  leaving  the  door-stone,  and  his  blear' d  eyes  turned  to 
catch  the  last  sentence  of  the  mandate. 

"And  yet,  perhaps  you  may  as  well,"  added  he,  communing  a  moment 
with  himself:  "you  may  tell  him  his  brother  Frank,  Wild  Frank,  it  is, 
who  wishes  him  to  come." 

^  The  old  man  departed  on  his  errand,  and  he  who  call'd  himself  Wild 
Frank,  toss'd  his  nearly  smoked  cigar  out  of  the  window,  and  folded 
his  arms  in  thought. 

No  better  place  than  this,  probably,  will  occur  to  give  a  brief  account 
of  some  former  events  in  the  life  of  the  young  stranger,  resting  and  waiting 
at  the  village  inn.  Fifteen  miles  east  of  that  inn  lived  a  farmer  named  Hall, 
a  man  of  good  repute,  well-off  in  the  world,  and  head  of  a  large  family. 
He  was  fond  of  gain  —  required  all  his  boys  to  labor  in  proportion  to 
their  age ;  and  his  right  hand  man,  if  he  might  not  be  called  favorite, 
was  his  eldest  son  Richard.  This  eldest  son,  an  industrious,  sober-faced 
young  fellow,  was  invested  by  his  father  with  the  powers  of  second  in 
command  }  and  as  strict  and  swift  obedience  was  a  prime  tenet  in  the 
farmer's  domestic  government,  the  children  all  tacitly  submitted  to  their 
brother's  sway— all  but  one,  and  that  was  Frank.  The  farmer's  wife 
was  a  quiet  woman,  in  rather  tender  health  j  and  though  for  all  her  off 
spring  she  had  a  mother's  love,  Frank's  kiss  ever  seem'd  sweetest  to  her 
lips.  ^  She  favor'd  him  more  than  the  rest  —  perhaps,  as  in  a  hundred  sim 
ilar  instances,  for  his  being  so  often  at  fault,  and  so  often  blamed.  In 
truth,  however,  he  seldom  receiv'd  more  blame  than  he  deserv'd,  for  he 
was  a  capricious,  high-temper' d  lad,  and  up  to  all  kinds  of  mischief. 
From  these  traits  he  was  known  in  the  neighborhood  by  the  name  of  Wild 
Frank. 

Among  the  farmer's  stock  there  was  a  fine  young  blood  mare a  beau 
tiful  creature,  large  and  graceful,  with  eyes  like  dark-hued  jewels,  and 
her  color  that  of  the  deep  night.  It  being  the  custom  of  the  farmer  to 
let  his  boys  have  something  about  the  farm  that  they  could  call  their  own, 
and  take  care  of  as  such,  Black  Nell,  as  the  mare  was  called,  had  somehow 
or  other  fallen  to  Frank's  share.  He  was  very  proud  of  her,  and  thought 
as  much  of  her  comfort  as  his  own.  The  elder  brother,  however,  saw 
fit  to  claim  for  himself,  and  several  times  to  exercise,  a  privilege  of  man 
aging  and  using  Black  Nell,  notwithstanding  what  Frank  consider' d  his 
prerogative.  On  one  of  these  occasions  a  hot  dispute  arose,  and,  after 
much  angry  blood,  it  was  referr'd  to  the  farmer  for  settlement.  He 
decided  in  favor  of  Richard,  and  added  a  harsh  lecture  to  his  other  son. 
The  farmer  was  really  unjust  ;  and  Wild  Frank's  face  paled  with  rage 
and  mortification.  That  furious  temper  which  he  had  never  been  taught 
to  curb,  now  swell' d  like  an  overflowing  torrent.  With  difficulty  restrain- 
24 


352  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ing  the  exhibition  of  his  passions,  as  soon  as  he  got  by  himself  he  swore 
that  not  another  sun  should  roll  by  and  find  him  under  that  roof.  Late 
at  night  he  silently  arose,  and  turning  his  back  on  what  he  thought  an 
inhospitable  home,  in  mood  in  which  the  child  should  never  leave  the 
parental  roof,  bent  his  steps  toward  the  city. 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  alarm  and  grief  pervaded  the  whole  of  the 
family,  on  discovering  Frank's  departure.  And  as  week  after  week 
melted  away  and  brought  no  tidings  of  him,  his  poor  mother's  heart  grew 
wearier  and  wearier.  She  spoke  not  much,  but  was  evidently  sick  in 
spirit.  Nearly  two  years  had  claps' d  when  about  a  week  before  the 
incidents  at  the  commencement  of  this  story,  the  farmer's  family  were 
joyfully  surprised  by  receiving  a  letter  from  the  long  absent  son.  He 
had  been  to  sea,  and  was  then  in  New  York,  at  which  port  his  vessel  had 
just  arrived.  He  wrote  in  a  gay  strain  j  appear' d  to  have  lost  the  angry 
feeling  which  caused  his  flight  from  home  ;  and  said  he  heard  in  the  city 
that  Richard  had  married,  and  settled  several  miles  distant,  where  he 
wished  him  all  good  luck  and  happiness.  Wild  Frank  wound  up  his 
letter  by  promising,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  through  the  imperative 
business  of  his  ship,  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  parents  and  native  place.  On 
Tuesday  of  the  succeeding  week,  he  said  he  would  be  with  them. 

Within  half  an  hour  after  the  departure  of  old  Joe,  the  form  of  that 
ancient  personage  was  seen  slowly  wheeling  round  the  locust-tree  at  the 
end  of  the  lane,  accompanied  by  a  stout  young  man  in  primitive  homespun 
apparel.  The  meeting  between  Wild  Frank  and  his  brother  Richard, 
though  hardly  of  that  kind  which  generally  takes  place  between  persons  so 
closely  related,  could  not  exactly  be  call'd  distant  or  cool  either.  Richard 
press' d  his  brother  to  go  with  him  to  the  farmhouse,  and  refresh  and  repose 
himself  for  some  hours  at  least,  but  Frank  declined. 

"They  will  all  expect  me  home  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  "I  wrote  to 
them  I  would  be  there  to-day." 

"But  you  must  be  very  tired,  Frank,"  rejoin' d  the  other  }  '« won't  you 
let  some  of  us  harness  up  and  carry  you  ?  Or  if  you  like  —  "  he  stopp'd 
a  moment,  and  a  trifling  suffusion  spread  over  his  face  ;  "if  you  like,  I'll 
put  the  saddle  on  Black  Nell  — she's  here  at  my  place  now,  and  you  can 
ride  home  like  a  lord." 

Frank's  face  color' d  a  little,  too.  He  paused  for  a  moment  in  thought 
—  he  was  really  foot-sore,  and  exhausted  with  his  journey  that  hot  day  — 
so  he  accepted  his  brother's  offer. 

"You  know  the  speed  of  Nell,  as  well  as  I,"  said  Richard  j  "I'll  war 
rant  when  I  bring  her  here  you'll  say  she's  in  good  order  as  ever."  So 
telling  him  to  amuse  himself  for  a  few  minutes  as  well  as  he  could,  Richard 
left  the  tavern. 

Could  it  be  that  Black  Nell  knew  her  early  master?  She  neigh' d  and 
rubb'd  her  nose  on  his  shoulder  j  and  as  he  put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  and 
rose  on  her  back,  it  was  evident  that  they  were  both  highly  pleased  with 
their  meeting.  Bidding  his  brother  farewell,  and  not  forgetting  old  Joe, 
the  young  man  set  forth  on  his  journey  to  his  father's  house.  As  he  left 
the  village  behind,  and  came  upon  the  long  monotonous  road  before  him, 
he  thought  on  the  circumstances  of  his  leaving  home  —  and  he  thought,  too, 


COLLECT  353 

on  his  course  of  life,  how  it  was  being  frittered  away  and  lost.  Very  gentle 
influences,  doubtless,  came  over  Wild  Frank's  mind  then,  and  he  yearn' d 
to  show  his  parents  that  he  was  sorry  for  the  trouble  he  had  cost  them. 
He  blamed  himself  for  his  former  follies,  and  even  felt  remorse  that  he  had 
not  acted  more  kindly  to  Richard,  and  gone  to  his  house.  Oh,  it  had 
been  a  sad  mistake  of  the  farmer  that  he  did  not  teach  his  children  to  love 
one  another.  It  was  a  foolish  thing  that  he  prided  himself  on  governing 
his  little  flock  well,  when  sweet  affection,  gentle  forbearance,  and  brotherly 
faith,  were  almost  unknown  among  them. 

The  day  was  now  advanced,  though  the  heat  pour'  d  down  with  a  strength 
little  less  oppressive  than  at  noon.  Frank  had  accomplish' d  the  greater 
part  of  his  journey  ;  he  was  within  two  miles  of  his  home.  The  road  here 
led  over  a  high,  tiresome  hill,  and  he  determined  to  stop  on  the  top  of  it 
and  rest  himself,  as  well  as  give  the  animal  he  rode  a  few  minutes'  breath. 
How  well  he  knew  the  place  !  And  that  mighty  oak,  standing  just  outside 
the  fence  on  the  very  summit  of  the  hill,  often  had  he  reposed  under  its 
shade.  It  would  be  pleasant  for  a  few  minutes  to  stretch  his  limbs  there 
again  as  of  old,  he  thought  to  himself;  and  he  dismounted  from  the  saddle 
and  led  Black  Nell  under  the  tree.  Mindful  of  the  comfort  of  his  favorite, 
he  took  from  his  little  bundle,  which  he  had  strapped  behind  him  on  the 
mare's  back,  a  piece  of  strong  cord,  four  or  five  yards  in  length,  which  he 
tied  to  the  bridle,  and  wound  and  tied  the  other  end,  for  security,  over  his 
own  wrist  ;  then  throwing  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  ground,  Black 
Nell  was  at  liberty  to  graze  around  him,  without  danger  of  straying  away. 

It  was  a  calm  scene,  and  a  pleasant.  There  was  no  rude  sound  — 
hardly  even  a  chirping  insect  —  to  break  the  sleepy  silence  of  the  place. 
The  atmosphere  had  a  dim,  hazy  cast,  and  was  impregnated  with  over 
powering  heat.  The  young  man  lay  there  minute  after  minute,  as  time 
glided  away  unnoticed  ;  for  he  was  very  tired,  and  his  repose  was  sweet 
to  him.  Occasionally  he  raised  himself  and  cast  a  listless  look  at  the 
distant  landscape,  veil'd  as  it  was  by  the  slight  mist.  At  length  his 
repose  was  without  such  interruptions.  His  eyes  closed,  and  though  at 
first  they  open'd  languidly  again  at  intervals,  after  a  while  they  shut 
altogether.  Could  it  be  that  he  slept  ?  It  was  so  indeed.  Yielding  to 
the  drowsy  influences  about  him,  and  to  his  prolong' d  weariness  of  travel, 
he  had  fallen  into  a  deep,  sound  slumber.  Thus  he  lay  j  and  Black 
Nell,  the  original  cause  of  his  departure  from  his  home  —  by  a  singular 
chance,  the  companion  of  his  return  —  quietly  cropp'd  the  grass  at  his  side. 

An  hour  nearly  pass'd  away,  and  yet  the  young  man  slept  on.  The 
light  and  heat  were  not  glaring  now  j  a  change  had  come  over  earth  and 
heaven.  There  were  signs  of  one  of  those  thunderstorms  that  in  our 
climate  spring  up  and  pass  over  so  quickly  and  so  terribly.  Masses  of 
vapor  loom'd  up  in  the  horizon,  and  a  dark  shadow  settled  on  the  woods 
and  fields.  The  leaves  of  the  great  oak  rustled  together  over  the  youth's 
head.  Clouds  flitted  swiftly  in  the  sky,  like  bodies  of  armed  men  coming 
up  to  battle  at  the  call  of  their  leader's  trumpet.  A  thick  rain-drop  fell 
now  and  then,  while  occasionally  hoarse  mutterings  of  thunder  sounded 
in  the  distance  $  yet  the  slumberer  was  not  arous'd.  It  was  strange  that 
Wild  Frank  did  not  awake.  Perhaps  his  ocean  life  had  taught  him  to 


354  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

rest  undisturbed  amid  the  jarring  of  elements.  Though  the  storm  was 
now  coming  on  in  its  fury,  he  slept  like  a  babe  in  its  cradle. 

Black  Nell  had  ceased  grazing,  and  stood  by  her  sleeping  master  with 
ears  erect,  and  her  long  mane  and  tail  waving  in  the  wind.  It  seem'd 
quite  dark,  so  heavy  were  the  clouds.  The  blast  blew  sweepingly,  the 
lightning  flashed,  and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  Crash  after  crash  of  thunder 
seem'd  to  shake  the  solid  earth.  And  Black  Nell,  she  stood  now,  an 
image  of  beautiful  terror,  with  her  fore  feet  thrust  out,  her  neck  arch' d, 
and  her  eyes  glaring  balls  of  fear.  At  length,  after  a  dazzling  and  lurid 
glare,  there  came  a  peal  —  a  deafening  crash  —  as  if  the  great  axle  was 
rent.  God  of  Spirits  !  the  startled  mare  sprang  off  like  a  ship  in  an 
ocean-storm  !  Her  eyes  were  blinded  with  light ;  she  dashed  madly  down 
the  hill,  and  plunge  after  plunge  —  far,  far  away  —  swift  as  an  arrow  — 
dragging  the  hapless  body  of  the  youth  behind  her  ! 

In  the  low,  old-fashion' d  dwelling  of  the  farmer  there  was  a  large 
family  group.  The  men  and  boys  had  gather1  d  under  shelter  at  the 
approach  of  the  storm  ;  and  the  subject  of  their  talk  was  the  return  of  the 
long  absent  son.  The  mother  spoke  of  him,  too,  and  her  eyes  brighten' d 
with  pleasure  as  she  spoke.  She  made  all  the  little  domestic  preparations 
—  cook'd  his  favorite  dishes  —  and  arranged  for  him  his  own  bed,  in  its 
own  old  place.  As  the  tempest  mounted  to  its  fury  they  discuss' d  the 
probability  of  his  getting  soak'd  by  it  ;  and  the  provident  dame  had 
already  selected  some  dry  garments  for  a  change.  But  the  rain  was  soon 
over,  and  nature  smiled  again  in  her  invigorated  beauty.  The  sun  shone 
out  as  it  was  dipping  in  the  west.  Drops  sparkled  on  the  leaf-tips  — 
coolness  and  clearness  were  in  the  air. 

The  clattering  of  a  horse's  hoofs  came  to  the  ears  of  those  who  were 
gather' d  there.  It  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  house  that  the  wagon 
road  lead;  and  they  open'd  the  door  and  rush'd  in  a  tumult  of  glad 
anticipations,  through  the  adjoining  room  to  the  porch.  What  a  sight 
it  was  that  met  them  there  !  Black  Nell  stood  a  few  feet  from  the  door, 
with  her  neck  crouch' d  down;  she  drew  her  breath  long  and  deep,  and 
vapor  rose  from  every  part  of  her  reeking  body.  And  with  eyes  starting 
from  their  sockets,  and  mouths  agape  with  stupefying  terror,  they  beheld 
on  the  ground  near  her  a  mangled,  hideous  mass  —  the  rough  semblance 
of  a  human  form  — all  batter' d,  and  cut,  and  bloody.  Attach' d  to  it 
was  the  fatal  cord,  dabbled  over  with  gore.  And  as  the  mother  gazed  — 
for  she  could  not  withdraw  her  eyes  —  and  the  appalling  truth  came  upon 
her  mind,  she  sank  down  without  shriek  or  utterance,  into  a  deep, 
deathly  swoon. 

THE    BOY   LOVER        Listen,  and  the  old  will  speak  a  chronicle  for 
the    young.      Ah,    youth  !    thou    art    one    day 

coming  to  be  old,  too.  And  let  me  tell  thee  how  thou  mayest  get  a  use 
ful  lesson.  For  an  hour,  dream  tbyself  old.  Realize,  in  thy  thoughts  and 
consciousness,  that  vigor  and  strength  are  subdued  in  thy  sinews  —  that 
the  color  of  the  shroud  is  liken' d  in  thy  very  hairs  — that  all  those  leaping 
desires,  luxurious  hopes,  beautiful  aspirations,  and  proud  confidences,  of 
thy  younger  life,  have  long  been  buried  (a  funeral  for  the  better  part  of 


COLLECT  355 

thee)  in  that  grave  which  must  soon  close  over  thy  tottering  limbs.  Look 
back,  then,  through  the  long  track  of  the  past  years.  How  has  it  been 
with  thee?  Are  there  bright  beacons  of  happiness  enjoy' d,  and  of  good 
done  by  the  way  ?  Glimmer  gentle  rays  of  what  was  scattered  from  a 
holy  heart?  Have  benevolence,  and  love,  and  undeviating  honesty  left 
tokens  on  which  thy  eyes  can  rest  sweetly  ?  Is  it  well  with  thee,  thus  ? 
Answerest  thou,  it  is  ?  Or  answerest  thou,  I  see  nothing  but  gloom  and 
shatter' d  hours,  and  the  wreck  of  good  resolves,  and  a  broken  heart,  filled 
with  sickness,  and  troubled  among  its  ruined  chambers  with  the  phantoms 
of  many  follies  ? 

O,  youth!  youth!  this  dream  will  one  day  be  a  reality — a  reality, 
either  of  heavenly  peace  or  agonizing  sorrow. 

And  yet  not  for  all  is  it  decreed  to  attain  the  neighborhood  of  the  three 
score  and  ten  years  —  the  span  of  life.  I  am  to  speak  of  one  who  died 
young.  Very  awkward  was  his  childhood  —  but  most  fragile  and  sensitive  ! 
So  delicate  a  nature  may  exist  in  a  rough,  unnoticed  plant  !  Let  the  boy 
rest }  —  he  was  not  beautiful,  and  dropp'  d  away  betimes.  But  for  the 
cause  —  it  is  a  singular  story,  to  which  let  crusted  worldlings  pay  the  tribute 
of  a  light  laugh  —  light  and  empty  as  their  own  hollow  hearts. 

Love  !  which  with  its  cankerseed  of  decay  within,  has  sent  young  men 
and  maidens  to  a  long'd-for,  but  too  premature  burial.  Love  !  the  child- 
monarch  that  Death  itself  cannot  conquer  ;  that  has  its  tokens  on  slabs  at  the 
head  of  grass-cover' d  tombs  — tokens  more  visible  to  the  eye  of  the  stranger, 
yet  not  so  deeply  graven  as  the  face  and  the  remembrances  cut  upon  the 
heart  of  the  living.  Love  !  the  sweet,  the  pure,  the  innocent ;  yet  the  causer 
of  fierce  hate,  of  wishes  for  deadly  revenge,  of  bloody  deeds,  and  madness, 
and  the  horrors  of  hell.  Love  !  that  wanders  over  battlefields,  turning  up 
mangled  human  trunks,  and  parting  back  the  hair  from  gory  faces,  and 
daring  the  points  of  swords  and  the  thunder  of  artillery,  without  a  fear  or 
a  thought  of  danger. 

Words  !  words  !  I  begin  to  see  I  am,  indeed,  an  old  man,  and  garru 
lous  !  Let  me  go  back  —  yes,  I  see  it  must  be  many  years  ! 

It  was  at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  I  was  at  that  time  studying  law, 
the  profession  my  father  follow' d.  One  of  his  clients  was  an  elderly  widow, 
a  foreigner,  who  kept  a  little  ale-house,  on  the  banks  of  the  North  River, 
at  about  two  miles  from  what  is  now  the  centre  of  the  city.  Tben  the  spot 
was  quite  out  of  town  and  surrounded  by  fields  and  green  trees.  The  widow 
often  invited  me  to  come  and  pay  her  a  visit,  when  I  had  a  leisure  afternoon 
—  including  also  in  the  invitation  my  brother  and  two  other  students  who 
were  in  my  father's  office.  Matthew,  the  brother  I  mention,  was  a  boy  of 
sixteen  ;  he  was  troubled  with  an  inward  illness  —  though  it  had  no  power 
over  his  temper,  which  ever  retain' d  the  most  admirable  placidity  and  gen 
tleness.  He  was  cheerful,  but  never  boisterous,  and  everybody  loved  him  ; 
his  mind  seem'd  more  develop' d  than  is  usual  for  his  age,  though  his  per 
sonal  appearance  was  exceedingly  plain.  Wheaton  and  Brown,  the  names 
of  the  other  students,  were  spirited,  clever  young  fellows,  with  most  of  the 
traits  that  those  in  their  position  of  life  generally  possess.  The  first  was  as 
generous  and  brave  as  any  man  I  ever  knew.  He  was  very  passionate,  too, 
but  the  whirlwind  soon  blew  over,  and  left  everything  quiet  again.  Frank 


356  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Brown  was  slim,  graceful,  and  handsome.  He  profess' d  to  be  fond  of 
sentiment,  and  used  to  fall  regularly  in  love  once  a  month. 

The  half  of  every  Wednesday  we  four  youths  had  to  ourselves,  and  were 
in  the  habit  of  taking  a  sail,  a  ride,  or  a  walk  together.  One  of  these  after 
noons,  of  a  pleasant  day  in  April,  the  sun  shining,  and  the  air  clear,  I  be 
thought  myself  of  the  widow  and  her  beer  —  about  which  latter  article  I 
had  made  inquiries,  and  heard  it  spoken  of  in  terms  of  high  commendation. 
I  mention' d  the  matter  to  Matthew  and  to  my  fellow-students,  and  we 
agreed  to  fill  up  our  holiday  by  a  jaunt  to  the  ale-house.  Accordingly, 
we  set  forth,  and,  after  a  fine  walk,  arrived  in  glorious  spirits  at  our 
destination. 

Ah  !  how  shall  I  describe  the  quiet  beauties  of  the  spot,  with  its  long, 
low  piazza  looking  out  upon  the  river,  and  its  clean  homely  tables,  and  the 
tankards  of  real  silver  in  which  the  ale  was  given  us,  and  the  flavor  of  that 
excellent  liquor  itself.  There  was  the  widow  j  and  there  was  a  sober, 
stately  old  woman,  half  companion,  half  servant,  Margery  by  name ;  and 
there  was  (good  God  !  my  fingers  quiver  yet  as  I  write  the  word  !)  young 
Ninon,  the  daughter  of  the  widow. 

O,  through  the  years  that  live  no  more,  my  memory  strays  back,  and 
that  whole  scene  comes  up  before  me  once  again — and  the  brightest  part 
of  the  picture  is  the  strange  ethereal  beauty  of  that  young  girl  !  She  was 
apparently  about  the  age  of  my  brother  Matthew,  and  the  most  fascinating, 
artless  creature  I  had  ever  beheld.  She  had  blue  eyes  and  light  hair,  and 
an  expression  of  childish  simplicity  which  was  charming  indeed.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  ere  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  from  the  time  we  enter' d  the  tavern 
and  saw  Ninon,  every  one  of  the  four  of  us  loved  the  girl  to  the  very  depth 
of  passion. 

We  neither  spent  so  much  money,  nor  drank  as  much  beer,  as  we  had 
intended  before  starting  from  home.  The  widow  was  very  civil,  being 
pleased  to  see  us,  and  Margery  served  our  wants  with  a  deal  of  politeness  — 
but  it  was  to  Ninon  that  the  afternoon's  pleasure  was  attributable  j  for 
though  we  were  strangers,  we  became  acquainted  at  once — the  manners  of 
the  girl,  merry  as  she  was,  putting  entirely  out  of  view  the  most  distant 
imputation  of  indecorum — and  the  presence  of  the  widow  and  Margery, 
(for  we  were  all  in  the  common  room  together,  there  being  no  other  com 
pany,)  serving  to  make  us  all  disembarrass' d,  and  at  ease. 

It  was  not  until  quite  a  while  after  sunset  that  we  started  on  our  return 
to  the  city.  We  made  several  attempts  to  revive  the  mirth  and  lively  talk 
that  usually  signalized  our  rambles,  but  they  seem'd  forced  and  discordant, 
like  laughter  in  a  sick-room.  My  brother  was  the  only  one  who  preserved 
his  usual  tenor  of  temper  and  conduct. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  thenceforward  every  Wednesday  afternoon  was 
spent  at  the  widow's  tavern.  Strangely,  neither  Matthew  or  my  two 
friends,  or  myself,  spoke  to  each  other  of  the  sentiment  that  filled  us  in 
reference  to  Ninon.  Yet  we  all  knew  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the 
others  ;  and  each,  perhaps,  felt  confident  that  his  love  alone  was  unsuspected 
by  his  companions. 

The  story  of  the  widow  was  a  touching  yet  simple  one.  She  was  by 
birth  a  S«wiss.  In  one  of  the  cantons  of  her  native  land,  she  had  grown  up, 


COLLECT  357 

and  married,  and  lived  for  a  time  in  happy  comfort.  A  son  was  born  to 
her,  and  a  daughter,  the  beautiful  Ninon.  By  some  reverse  of  fortune,  the 
father  and  head  of  the  family  had  the  greater  portion  of  his  possessions 
swept  from  him.  He  struggled  for  a  time  against  the  evil  influence,  but  it 
press' d  upon  him  harder  and  harder.  He  had  heard  of  a  people  in  the 
western  world  —  a  new  and  swarming  land — where  the  stranger  was  wel- 
com'd,  and  peace  and  the  protection  of  the  strong  arm  thrown  around  him. 
He  had  not  heart  to  stay  and  struggle  amid  the  scenes  of  his  former  pros 
perity,  and  he  determined  to  go  and  make  his  home  in  that  distant- republic 
of  the  west.  So  with  his  wife  and  children,  and  the  proceeds  of  what  little 
property  was  left,  he  took  passage  for  New  York.  He  was  never  to  reach 
his  journey's  end.  Either  the  cares  that  weigh' d  upon  his  mind,  or  some 
other  cause,  consign' d  him  to  a  sick  hammock,  from  which  he  only  found 
relief  through  the  Great  Dismisser.  He  was  buried  in  the  sea,  and  in  due 
time  his  family  arrived  at  the  American  emporium.  But  there,  the  son  too 

sicken' d died,  ere  long,  and  was  buried  likewise.      They  would  not  bury 

him  in  the  city,  but  away  —  by  the  solitary  banks  of  the  Hudson  j  on  which 
the  widow  soon  afterwards  took  up  her  abode. 

Ninon  was  too  young  to  feel  much  grief  at  these  sad  occurrences  ;  and 
the  mother,  whatever  she  might  have  suffer' d  inwardly,  had  a  good  deal  of 
phlegm  and  patience,  and  set  about  making  herself  and  her  remaining  child 
as  comfortable  as  might  be.  They  had  still  a  respectable  sum  in  cash,  and 
after  due  deliberation,  the  widow  purchas'd  the  little  quiet  tavern,  not  far 
from  the  grave  of  her  boy  ;  and  of  Sundays  and  holidays  she  took  in  con 
siderable  money  —  enough  to  make  a  decent  support  for  them  in  their 
humble  way  of  living.  French  and  Germans  visited  the  house  frequently, 
and  quite  a  number  of  young  Americans  too.  Probably  the  greatest 
attraction  to  the  latter  was  the  sweet  face  of  Ninon. 

Spring  passed,  and  summer  crept  in  and  wasted  away,  and  autumn  had 
arrived.  Every  New  Yorker  knows  what  delicious  weather  we  have,  in 
these  regions,  of  the  early  October  days  ;  how  calm,  clear,  and  divested  of 
sultriness,  is  the  air,  and  how  decently  nature  seems  preparing  for  her 
winter  sleep. 

Thus  it  was  the  last  Wednesday  we  started  on  our  accustomed  excursion. 
Six  months  had  elapsed  since  our  first  visit,  and,  as  then,  we  were  full  of 
the  exuberance  of  young  and  joyful  hearts.  Frequent  and  hearty  were  our 
jokes,  by  no  means  particular  about  the  theme  or  the  method,  and  long 
and  loud  the  peals  of  laughter  that  rang  over  the  fields  or  along  the 
shore. 

We  took  our  seats  round  the  same  clean,  white  table,  and  received  our 
favorite  beverage  in  the  same  bright  tankards.  They  were  set  before  us  by 
the  sober  Margery,  no  one  else  being  visible.  As  frequently  happen' d, 
we  were  the  only  company.  Walking  and  breathing  the  keen,  fine  air  had 
made  us  dry,  and  we  soon  drain' d  the  foaming  vessels,  and  call'd  for  more. 
I  remember  well  an  animated  chat  we  had  about  some  poems  that  had  just 
made  their  appearance  from  a  great  British  author,  and  were  creating  quite 
a  public  stir.  There  was  one,  a  tale  of  passion  and  despair,  which  Wheaton 
had  read,  and  of  which  he  gave  us  a  transcript.  Wild,  startling,  and 
dreamy,  perhaps  it  threw  over  our  minds  its  peculiar  cast. 


358  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

An  hour  moved  off,  and  we  began  to  think  it  strange  that  neither  Ninon 
or  the  widow  came  into  the  room.  One  of  us  gave  a  hint  to  that  effect  to 
Margery  j  but  she  made  no  answer,  and  went  on  in  her  usual  way  as 
before. 

"The  grim  old  thing,"  said  Wheaton,  "if  she  were  in  Spain,  they'd 
make  her  a  premier  duenna  I" 

I  ask'd  the  woman  about  Ninon  and  the  widow.  She  seemed  disturb' d, 
I  thought  j  but,  making  no  reply  to  the  first  part  of  my  question,  said  that 
her  mistress  was  in  another  part  of  the  house,  and  did  not  wish  to  be  with 
company. 

"  Then  be  kind  enough,  Mrs.  Vinegar,"  resumed  Wheaton,  good- 
naturedly,  "be  kind  enough  to  go  and  ask  the  widow  if  we  can  see 
Ninon." 

Our  attendant's  face  turn'd  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  she  precipitately  left 
the  apartment.  We  laugh' d  at  her  agitation,  which  Frank  Brown  assigned 
to  our  merry  ridicule. 

Quite  a  quarter  of  an  hour  claps'  d  before  Margery' s  return.  When  she 
appeared  she  told  us  briefly  that  the  widow  had  bidden  her  obey  our  be 
hest,  and  now,  if  we  desired,  she  would  conduct  us  to  the  daughter's 
presence.  There  was  a  singular  expression  in  the  woman's  eyes,  and  the 
whole  affair  began  to  strike  us  as  somewhat  odd  j  but  we  arose,  and  taking 
our  caps,  follow'  d  her  as  she  stepp'  d  through  the  door.  Back  of  the  house 
were  some  fields,  and  a  path  leading  into  clumps  of  trees.  At  some  thirty 
rods  distant  from  the  tavern,  nigh  one  of  those  clumps,  the  larger  tree 
whereof  was  a  willow,  Margery  stopp'd,  and  pausing  a  minute,  while  we 
came  up,  spoke  in  tones  calm  and  low  : 

"Ninon  is  there  !" 

She  pointed  downward  with  her  finger.  Great  God  !  There  was  a 
grave,  new  made,  and  with  the  sods  loosely  join'  d,  and  a  rough  brown  stone 
at  each  extremity  !  Some  earth  yet  lay  upon  the  grass  near  by.  If  we 
had  look'd,  we  might  have  seen  the  resting-place  of  the  widow's  son, 
Ninon's  brother  —  for  it  was  close  at  hand.  But  amid  the  whole  scene  our 
eyes  took  in  nothing  except  that  horrible  covering  of  death  —  the  oven- 
shaped  mound.  My  sight  seemed  to  waver,  my  head  felt  dizzy,  and  a 
feeling  of  deadly  sickness  came  over  me.  I  heard  a  stifled  exclamation,  and 
looking  round,  saw  Frank  Brown  leaning  against  the  nearest  tree,  great 
sweat  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  cheeks  bloodless  as  chalk.  Wheaton  gave 
way  to  his  agony  more  fully  than  ever  I  had  known  a  man  before  j  he  had 
fallen  —  sobbing  like  a  child,  and  wringing  his  hands.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  the  suddenness  and  fearfulness  of  the  sickening  truth  that  came  upon 
us  like  a  stroke  of  thunder. 

Of  all  of  us,  my  brother  Matthew  neither  shed  tears,  or  turned  pale,  or 
fainted,  or  exposed  any  other  evidence  of  inward  depth  of  pain.  His  quiet, 
pleasant  voice  was  indeed  a  tone  lower,  but  it  was  that  which  recall' d  us, 
after  the  lapse  of  many  long  minutes,  to  ourselves. 

So  the  girl  had  died  and  been  buried.  We  were  told  of  an  illness  that 
had  seized  her  the  very  day  after  our  last  preceding  visit  j  but  we  inquired 
not  into  the  particulars. 

And  now  come  I  to  the  conclusion  of  my  story,  and  to  the  most  singu- 


COLLECT  359 

lar  part  of  it.  The  evening  of  the  third  day  afterward,  Wheaton,  who  had 
wept  scalding  tears,  and  Brown,  whose  cheeks  had  recover' d  their  color, 
and  myself,  that  for  an  hour  thought  my  heart  would  never  rebound  again 
from  the  fearful  shock — that  evening,  I  say,  we  three  were  seated  around 
a  table  in  another  tavern,  drinking  other  beer,  and  laughing  but  a  little  less 
cheerfully,  and  as  though  we  had  never  known  the  widow  or  her  daughter 
—  neither  of  whom,  I  venture  to  affirm,  came  into  our  minds  once  the 
whole  night,  or  but  to  be  dismiss' d  again,  carelessly,  like  the  remembrance 
of  faces  seen  in  a  crowd. 

Strange  are  the  contradictions  of  the  things  of  life  !  The  seventh  day 
after  that  dreadful  visit  saw  my  brother  Matthew  —  the  delicate  one,  who, 
while  bold  men  writhed  in  torture,  had  kept  the  same  placid  face,  and  the 
same  untrembling  fingers  —  him  that  seventh  day  saw  a  clay-cold  corpse, 
carried  to  the  repose  of  the  churchyard.  The  shaft,  rankling  far  down  and 
within,  wrought  a  poison  too  great  for  show,  and  the  youth  died. 

THE  CHILD  AND  Just  after  sunset,  one  evening  in  summer  — 

THE  PROFLIGATE  that  pleasant  hour  when  the  air  is  balmy,  the 

light  loses  its  glare,  and  all  around  is  imbued 

with  soothing  quiet  —  on  the  door-step  of  a  house  there  sat  an  elderly 
woman  waiting  the  arrival  of  her  son.  The  house  was  in  a  straggling  vil 
lage  some  fifty  miles  from  New  York  city.  She  who  sat  on  the  door-step 
was  a  widow  ;  her  white  cap  cover' d  locks  of  gray,  and  her  dress,  though 
clean,  was  exceedingly  homely.  Her  house  —  for  the  tenement  she  occu 
pied  was  her  own  —  was  very  little  and  very  old.  Trees  cluster' d  around 
it  so  thickly  as  almost  to  hide  its  color  —  that  blackish  gray  color  which 
belongs  to  old  wooden  houses  that  have  never  been  painted  j  and  to  get  in 
it  you  had  to  enter  a  little  rickety  gate  and  walk  through  a  short  path, 
border' d  by  carrot  beds  and  beets  and  other  vegetables.  The  son  whom 
she  was  expecting  was  her  only  child.  About  a  year  before  he  had  been 
bound  apprentice  to  a  rich  farmer  in  the  place,  and  after  finishing  his  daily 
task  he  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  half  an  hour  at  his  mother's.  On  the 
present  occasion  the  shadows  of  night  had  settled  heavily  before  the  youth 
made  his  appearance.  When  he  did,  his  walk  was  slow  and  dragging, 
and  all  his  motions  were  languid,  as  if  from  great  weariness.  He  open'd 
the  gate,  came  through  the  path,  and  sat  down  by  his  mother  in  silence. 

"You  are  sullen  to-night,  Charley,"  said  the  widow,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  when  she  found  that  he  returned  no  answer  to  her  greeting. 

As  she  spoke  she  put  her  hand  fondly  on  his  head  ;  it  seem'd  moist  as  if 
it  had  been  dipp'd  in  the  water.  His  shirt,  too,  was  soak'd  j  and  as  she 
pass'd  her  fingers  down  his  shoulder  she  left  a  sharp  twinge  in  her  heart, 
for  she  knew  that  moisture  to  be  the  hard  wrung  sweat  of  severe  toil,  exacted 
from  her  young  child  (he  was  but  thirteen  years  old)  by  an  unyielding  task 
master. 

"  You  have  work'd  hard  to-day,  my  son." 

"I've  been  mowing." 

The  widow's  heart  felt  another  pang. 

"Not  all  day,  Charley  ?"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  j  and  there  was  a 
slight  quiver  in  it. 


360  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

"Yes,  mother,  all  day,"  replied  the  boy  ;  "Mr.  Ellis  said  he  couldn't 
afford  to  hire  men,  for  wages  are  so  high.  I've  swung  the  scythe  ever 
since  an  hour  before  sunrise.  Feel  of  my  hands." 

There  were  blisters  on  them  like  great  lumps.  Tears  started  in  the 
widow's  eyes.  She  dared  not  trust  herself  with  a  reply,  though  her  heart 
was  bursting  with  the  thought  that  she  could  not  better  his  condition. 
There  was  no  earthly  means  of  support  on  which  she  had  dependence 
enough  to  encourage  her  child  in  the  wish  she  knew  he  was  forming  —  the 
wish  not  utter' d  for  the  first  time  —  to  be  freed  from  his  bondage. 

"Mother,"  at  length  said  the  boy,  "I  can  stand  it  no  longer.  I  can 
not  and  will  not  stay  at  Mr.  Ellis' s.  Ever  since  the  day  I  first  went 
into  his  house  I've  been  a  slave  ;  and  if  I  have  to  work  so  much  longer 
I  know  I  shall  run  off  and  go  to  sea  or  somewhere  else.  I'd  as  leave 
be  in  my  grave  as  there."  And  the  child  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of 
weeping. 

His  mother  was  silent,  for  she  was  in  deep  grief  herself.  After  some 
minutes  had  flown,  however,  she  gather' d  sufficient  self-possession  to  speak 
to  her  son  in  a  soothing  tone,  endeavoring  to  win  him  from  his  sorrows  and 
cheer  up  his  heart.  She  told  him  that  time  was  swift  —  that  in  the  course 
of  a  few  years  he  would  be  his  own  master  —  that  all  people  have  their 
troubles  — with  many  other  ready  arguments  which,  though  they  had  little 
effect  in  calming  her  own  distress,  she  hoped  would  act  as  a  solace  to  the 
disturb' d  temper  of  the  boy.  And  as  the  half  hour  to  which  he  was 
limited  had  now  claps' d,  she  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  to  the 
gate,  to  set  forth  on  his  return.  The  youth  seemed  pacified,  though  occa 
sionally  one  of  those  convulsive  sighs  that  remain  after  a  fit  of  weeping, 
would  break  from  his  throat.  At  the  gate  he  threw  his  arms  about  his 
mother's  neck  ;  each  press' d  a  long  kiss  on  the  lips  of  the  other,  and  the 
youngster  bent  his  steps  towards  his  master's  house. 

As  her  child  pass'd  out  of  sight  the  widow  return' d,  shut  the  gate  and 
enter' d  her  lonely  room.  There  was  no  light  in  the  old  cottage  that 
night  —  the  heart  of  its  occupant  was  dark  and  cheerless.  Love,  agony, 
and  grief,  and  tears  and  convulsive  wrestlings  were  there.  The  thought  of 
a  beloved  son  condemned  to  labor  —  labor  that  would  break  down  a  man 

—  struggling  from  day  to  day  under  the  hard  rule  of  a  soulless  gold-wor 
shipper  j  the  knowledge  that  years  must  pass  thus  ;  the  sickening  idea  of 
her  own  poverty,  and  of  living  mainly  on  the  grudged  charity  of  neighbors 

—  thoughts,  too,  of  former  happy  days  —  these  rack'd  the  widow's  heart, 
and  made  her  bed  a  sleepless  one  without  repose. 

The  boy  bent  his  steps  to  his  employer's,  as  has  been  said.  In  his  way 
down  the  village  street  he  had  to  pass  a  public  house,  the  only  one  the 
place  contain' d  5  and  when  he  came  off  against  it  he  he.ard  the  sound  of  a 
fiddle  —  drown' d,  however,  at  intervals,  by  much  laughter  and  talking. 
The  windows  were  up,  and,  the  house  standing  close  to  the  road,  Charles 
thought  it  no  harm  to  take  a  look  and  see  what  was  going  on  within. 
Half  a  dozen  footsteps  brought  him  to  the  low  casement,  on  which  he 
lean'd  his  elbow,  and  where  he  had  a  full  view  of  the  room  and  its  occu 
pants.  In  one  corner  was  an  old  man,  known  in  the  village  as  Black  Dave 

—  he  it  was  whose  musical  performances  had  a  moment  before  drawn 


COLLECT  361 

Charles's  attention  to  the  tavern  j  and  he  it  was  who  now  exerted  himself 
in  a  violent  manner  to  give,  with  divers  flourishes  and  extra  twangs,  a  tune 
very  popular  among  that  thick-lipp'd  race  whose  fondness  for  melody  is  so 
well  known.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  were  five  or  six  sailors,  some  of 
them  quite  drunk,  and  others  in  the  earlier  stages  of  that  process,  while  on 
benches  around  were  more  sailors,  and  here  and  there  a  person  dress' d  in 
landsman's  attire.  The  men  in  the  middle  of  the  room  were  dancing  ;  that 
is,  they  were  going  through  certain  contortions  and  shufflings,  varied  occa 
sionally  by  exceeding  hearty  stamps  upon  the  sanded  floor.  In  short  the 
whole  party  were  engaged  in  a  drunken  frolic,  which  was  in  no  respect  dif 
ferent  from  a  thousand  other  drunken  frolics,  except,  perhaps,  that  there 
was  less  than  the  ordinary  amount  of  anger  and  quarreling.  Indeed  every 
one  seem'd  in  remarkably  good  humor. 

But  what  excited  the  boy's  attention  more  than  any  other  object  was  an 
individual,  seated  on  one  of  the  benches  opposite,  who,  though  evidently 
enjoying  the  spree  as  much  as  if  he  were  an  old  hand  at  such  business, 
seem'd  in  every  other  particular  to  be  far  out  of  his  element.  His  appear 
ance  was  youthful.  He  might  have  been  twenty-one  or  two  years  old. 
His  countenance  was  intelligent,  and  had  the  air  of  city  life  and  society. 
He 'was  dress' d  not  gaudily,  but  in  every  respect  fashionably  3  his  coat 
being  of  the  finest  broadcloth,  his  linen  delicate  and  spotless  as  snow,  and 
his  whole  aspect  that  of  one  whose  counterpart  may  now  and  then  be  seen 
upon  the  pave  in  Broadway  of  a  fine  afternoon.  He  laugh' d  and  talk'd 
with  the  rest,  and  it  must  be  confess' d  his  jokes  — like  the  most  of  those 
that  pass'd  current  there  —  were  by  no  means  distinguish' d  for  their  refine 
ment  or  purity.  Near  the  door  was  a  small  table,  cover' d  with  decanters 
and  glasses,  some  of  which  had  been  used,  but  were  used  again  indiscrimi 
nately,  and  a  box  of  very  thick  and  very  long  cigars. 

One  of  the  sailors  —  and  it  was  he  who  made  the  largest  share  of  the 
hubbub  — had  but  one  eye.  His  chin  and  cheeks  were  cover' d  with  huge, 
bushy  whiskers,  and  altogether  he  had  quite  a  brutal  appearance.  "  Come, 
boys,"  said  this  gentleman,  "come,  let  us  take  a  drink.  I  know  you're 
all  a  getting  dry  j  "  and  he  clench' d  his  invitation  with  an  appalling  oath. 

This  politeness  was  responded  to  by  a  general  moving  of  the  company 
toward  the  table  holding  the  before-mention'd  decanters  and  glasses.  Clus 
tering  there  around,  each  one  help'd  himself  to  a  very  handsome  portion 
of  that  particular  liquor  which  suited  his  fancy  ;  and  steadiness  and  accuracy 
being  at  that  moment  by  no  means  distinguishing  traits  of  the  arms  and 
legs  of  the  party,  a  goodly  amount  of  the  fluid  was  spill1  d  upon  the  floor. 
This  piece  of  extravagance  excited  the  ire  of  the  personage  who  gave  the 
* :  treat j  "  and  that  ire  was  still  further  increas'd  when  he  discover' d  two  or 
three  loiterers  who  seem'd  disposed  to  slight  his  request  to  drink.  Charles, 
as  we  have  before  mention' d,  was  looking  in  at  the  window. 

"  Walk  up,  boys  !  walk  up  !  If  there  be  any  skulker  among  us,  blast 
my  eyes  if  he  shan't  go  down  on  his  marrow  bones  and  taste  the  liquor  we 
have  spilt  !  Hallo  ! "  he  exclaim' d  as  he  spied  Charles  ;  "  hallo,  you  chap 
in  the  window,  come  here  and  take  a  sup." 

As  he  spoke  he  stepp'd  to  the  open  casement,  put  his  brawny  hands 
under  the  boy's  arms,  and  lifted  him  into  the  room  bodily. 


362  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

"There,  my  lads,"  said  he,  turning  to  his  companions,  "there's  a  new 
recruit  for  you.  Not  so  coarse  a  one,  either,"  he  added  as  he  took  a  fair 
view  of  the  boy,  who,  though  not  what  is  called  pretty,  was  fresh  and 
manly  looking,  and  large  for  his  age. 

«  Come,  youngster,  take  a  glass,"  he  continued.  And  he  pour'd  one 
^nearly  full  of  strong  brandy. 

Now  Charles  was  not  exactly  frightened,  for  he  was  a  lively  fellow,  and 
had  often  been  at  the  country  merry-makings,  and  at  the  parties  of  the 
place  j  but  he  was  certainly  rather  abash' d  at  his  abrupt  introduction  to  the 
midst  of  strangers.  So,  putting  the  glass  aside,  he  look'd  up  with  a 
pleasant  smile  in  his  new  acquaintance's  face. 

"I've  no  need  for  anything  now,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  just  as  much 
obliged  to  you  as  if  I  was." 

"Poh  !  man,  drink  it  down,"  rejoin'd  the  sailor,  "  drink  it  down — it 
won't  hurt  you." 

And,  by  way  of  showing  its  excellence,  the  one-eyed  worthy  drain' d  it 
himself  to  the  last  drop.  .  Then  filling  it  again,  he  renew' d  his  efforts  to 
make  the  lad  go  through  the  same  operation. 

"I've  no  occasion.  Besides,  my  mother  has  often  pray*  d  me  not  to  drink, 
and  I  promised  to  obey  her." 

A  little  irritated  by  his  continued  refusal,  the  sailor,  with  a  loud  oath, 
declared  that  Charles  should  swallow  the  brandy,  whether  he  would  or  no. 
Placing  one  of  his  tremendous  paws  on  the  back  of  the  boy's  head,  with 
the  other  he  thrust  the  edge  of  the  glass  to  his  lips,  swearing  at  the  same 
time,  that  if  he  shook  it  so  as  to  spill  its  contents  the  consequences  would 
be  of  a  nature  by  no  means  agreeable  to  his  back  and  shoulders.  Disliking 
the  liquor,  and  angry  at  the  attempt  to  overbear  him,  the  undaunted  child 
lifted  his  hand  and  struck  the  arm  of  the  sailor  with  a  blow  so  sudden  that 
the  glass  fell  and  was  smash' d  to  pieces  on  the  floor  ;  while  the  brandy  was 
about  equally  divided  between  the  face  of  Charles,  the  clothes  of  the  sailor, 
and  the  sand.  By  this  time  the  whole  of  the  company  had  their  attention 
drawn  to  the  scene.  Some  of  them  laugh' d  when  they  saw  Charles's  un 
disguised  antipathy  to  the  drink  ;  but  they  laugh' d  still  more  heartily  when 
he  discomfited  the  sailor.  All  of  them,  however,  were  content  to  let  the 
matter  go  as  chance  would  have  it  —  all  but  the  young  man  of  the  black 
coat,  who  has  been  spoken  of. 

What  was  there  in  the  words  which  Charles  had  spoken  that  carried  the 
mind  of  the  young  man  back  to  former  times — to  a  period  when  he  was 
more  pure  and  innocent  than  now  ?  "  My  mother  has  of  ten  pray' d  me  not  to 
drink!''''  Ah,  how  the  mist  of  months  roll'd  aside,  and  presented  to  his 
souPs  eye  the  picture  of  his  mother,  and  a  prayer  of  exactly  similar  purport  ! 
Why  was  it,  too,  that  the  young  man's  heart  moved  with  a  feeling  of  kind 
ness  toward  the  harshly  treated  child  ? 

Charles  stood,  his  cheek  flush' d  and  his  heart  throbbing,  wiping  the 
trickling  drops  from  his  face  with  a  handkerchief.  At  first  the  sailor,  be 
tween  his  drunkenness  and  his  surprise,  was  much  in  the  condition  of  one 
suddenly  awaken' d  out  of  a  deep  sleep,  who  cannot  call  his  consciousness 
about  him.  When  he  saw  the  state  of  things,  however,  and  heard  the 
jeering  laugh  of  his  companions,  his  dull  eye  lighting  up  with  anger,  fell 


COLLECT  363 

upon  the  boy  who  had  withstood  him.  He  seized  Charles  with  a  grip  of 
iron,  and  with  the  side  of  his  heavy  boot  gave  him  a  sharp  and  solid  kick. 
He  was  about  repeating  the  performance  —  for  the  child  hung  like  a  rag  in 
his  grasp  —but  all  of  a  sudden  his  ears  rang,  as  if  pistols  were  snapp'd 
close  to  them  ;  lights  of  various  hues  flicker' d  in  his  eye,  (he  had  but  one, 
it  will  be  remember' d,)  and  a  strong  propelling  power  caused  him  to  move 
from  his  position,  and  keep  moving  until  he  was  brought  up  by  the  wall. 
A  blow,  a  cuff  given  in  such  a  scientific  manner  that  the  hand  from  which 
it  proceeded  was  evidently  no  stranger  to  the  pugilistic  art,  had  been  sud 
denly  planted  in  the  ear  of  the  sailor.  It  was  planted  by  the  young  man 
of  the  black  coat.  He  had  watch' d  with  interest  the  proceeding  of  the 
sailor  and  the  boy  —  two  or  three  times  he  was  on  the  point  of  interfering  ; 
but  when  the  kick  was  given,  his  rage  was  uncontrollable.  He  sprang 
from  his  seat  in  the  attitude  of  a  boxer  —  struck  the  sailor  in  a  manner  to 
cause  those  unpleasant  sensations  which  have  been  described  —  and  would 
probably  have  follow' d  up  the  attack,  had  not  Charles,  now  thoroughly 
terrified,  clung  around  his  legs  and  prevented  his  advancing. 

The  scene  was  a  strange  one,  and  for  the  time  quite  a  silent  one.  The 
company  had  started  from  their  seats,  and  for  a  moment  held  breathless  but 
strain' d  positions.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  the  young  man,  in  his 
not  at  all  ungraceful  attitude  —  every  nerve  out,  and  his  eyes  flashing  bril 
liantly.  He  seem'd  rooted  like  a  rock  j  and  clasping  him,  with  an  appear 
ance  of  confidence  in  his  protection,  clung  the  boy. 

"You  scoundrel  !"  cried  the  young  man,  his  voice  thick  with  passion, 
"dare  to  touch  the  boy  again,  and  I'll  thrash  you  till  no  sense  is  left  in 
your  body." 

The  sailor,  now  partially  recover' d,  made  some  gestures  of  a  belligerent 
nature. 

"Come  on,  drunken  brute  !"  continued  the  angry  youth  5  "I  wish  you 
would!  You've  not  had  half  what  you  deserve  !" 

Upon  sobriety  and  sense  more  fully  taking  their  power  in  the  brains  of 
the  one-eyed  mariner,  however,  that  worthy  determined  in  his  own  mind 
that  it  would  be  most  prudent  to  let  the  matter  drop.  Expressing  there 
fore  his  conviction  to  that  effect,  adding  certain  remarks  to  the  purport 
that  he  "meant  no  harm  to  the  lad,"  that  he  was  surprised  at  such  a  gen 
tleman  being  angry  at  "  a  little  piece  of  fun,"  and  so  forth  — he  proposed 
that  the  company  should  go  on  with  their  jollity  just  as  if  nothing  had 
happen' d.  In  truth,  he  of  the  single  eye  was  not  a  bad  fellow  at  heart, 
after  all  j  the  fiery  enemy  whose  advances  he  had  so  often  courted  that 
night,  had  stolen  away  his  good  feelings,  and  set  busy  devils  at  work  within 
him,  that  might  have  made  his  hands  do  some  dreadful  deed,  had  not  the 
stranger  interposed. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  frolic  of  the  party  was  upon  its  former  footing. 
The  young  man  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  benches,  with  the  boy  by  his 
side,  and  while  the  rest  were  loudly  laughing  and  talking,  they  two  con- 
vers'd  together.  The  stranger  learn' d  from  Charles  all  the  particulars  of 
his  simple  story  —  how  his  father  had  died  years  since  —  how  his  mother 
work'd  hard  for  a  bare  living  —  and  how  he  himself,  for  many  dreary 
months,  had  been  the  servant  of  a  hard-hearted,  avaricious  master.  More 


364  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  more  interested,  drawing  the  child  close  to  his  side,  the  young  man 
listen' d  to  his  plainly  told  history  —  and  thus  an  hour  pass'd  away. 

It  was  now  past  midnight.  The  young  man  told  Charles  that  on  the 
morrow  he  would  take  steps  to  relieve  him  from  his  servitude  —  that  for 
the  present  night  the  landlord  would  probably  give  him  a  lodging  at  the 
inn  —  and  little  persuading  did  the  host  need  for  that. 

As  he  retired  to  sleep,  very  pleasant  thoughts  filled  the  mind  of  the 
young  man  —  thoughts  of  a  worthy  action  perform' d  —  thoughts,  too, 
newly  awakened  ones,  of  walking  in  a  steadier  and  wiser  path  than 
formerly. 

That  roof,  then,  sheltered  two  beings  that  night  —  one  of  them  innocent 
and  sinless  of  all  wrong  —  the  other  —  oh,  to  that  other  what  evil  had  not 
been  present,  either  in  action  or  to  his  desires  ! 

Who  was  the  stranger  ?  To  those  that,  from  ties  of  relationship  or 
otherwise,  felt  an  interest  in  him,  the  answer  to  that  question  was  not 
pleasant  to  dwell  upon.  His  name  was  Langton  —  parentless  —  a  dissi 
pated  young  man  —  a  brawler  —  one  whose  too  frequent  companions  were 
rowdies,  blacklegs,  and  swindlers.  The  New  York  police  offices  were  not 
strangers  to  his  countenance.  He  had  been  bred  to  the  profession  of  medi 
cine  j  besides,  he  had  a  very  respectable  income,  and  his  house  was  in  a 
pleasant  street  on  the  west  side  of  the  city.  Little  of  his  time,  however, 
did  Mr.  John  Langton  spend  at  his  domestic  hearth  ;  and  the  elderly  lady 
who  officiated  as  his  housekeeper  was  by  no  means  surprised  to  have  him 
gone  for  a  week  or  a  month  at  a  time,  and  she  knowing  nothing  of  his 
whereabouts. 

Living  as  he  did,  the  young  man  was  an  unhappy  being.  It  was  not  so 
much  that  his  associates  were  below  his  own  capacity  —  for  Langton, 
though  sensible  and  well  bred,  was  not  highly  talented  or  refined — but 
that  he  lived  without  any  steady  purpose,  that  he  had  no  one  to  attract  him 
to  his  home,  that  he  too  easily  allow' d  himself  to  be  tempted  —  which 
caused  his  life  to  be,  of  late,  one  continued  scene  of  dissatisfaction.  This 
dissatisfaction  he  sought  to  drive  away  by  the  brandy  bottle,  and  mixing  in 
all  kinds  of  parties  where  the  object  was  pleasure.  On  the  present  occa 
sion  he  had  left  the  city  a  few  days  before,  and  passing  his  time  at  a  place 
near  the  village  where  Charles  and  his  mother  lived.  He  fell  in,  during 
the  day,  with  those  who  were  his  companions  of  the  tavern  spree  ;  and  thus 
it  happen' d  that  they  were  all  together.  Langton  hesitated  not  to  make 
himself  at  home  with  any  associate  that  suited  his  fancy. 

The  next  morning  the  poor  widow  rose  from  her  sleepless  cot  j  and  from 
that  lucky  trait  in  our  nature  which  makes  one  extreme  follow  another,  she 
set  about  her  toil  with  a  lighten'  d  heart.  Ellis,  the  farmer,  rose,  too,  short 
as  the  nights  were,  an  hour  before  day ;  for  his  god  was  gain,  and  a  prime 
article  of  his  creed  was  to  get  as  much  work  as  possible  from  every  one 
around  him.  In  the  course  of  the  day  Ellis  was  called  upon  by  young 
Langton,  and  never  perhaps  in  his  life  was  the  farmer  puzzled  more  than  at 
the  young  man's  proposal — his  desire  to  provide  for  the  widow's  family,  a 
family  that  could  do  him  no  pecuniary  good,  and  his  willingness  to  dis 
burse  money  for  that  purpose.  The  widow,  too,  was  called  upon,  not 
only  on  that  day,  but  the  next  and  the  next. 


COLLECT  365 

It  needs  not  that  I  should  particularize  the  subsequent  events  of  Lang- 
ton's  and  the  boy's  history  —  how  the  reformation  of  the  profligate  might 
be  dated  to  begin  from  that  time  —  how  he  gradually  sever'  d  the  guilty  ties 
that  had  so  long  gall'd  him  — how  he  enjoy' d  his  own  home  again  —  how 
the  friendship  of  Charles  and  himself  grew  not  slack  with  time  —  and  how, 
when  in  the  course  of  seasons  he  became  head  of  a  family  of  his  own,  he 
would  shudder  at  the  remembrance  of  his  early  dangers  and  his  escapes. 

LING  AVE'S  TEMPT  A-     "  Another  day,"  utter'd  the  poet  Lingave, 

TION  as  he  awoke  in  the  morning,  and  turn'd  him 

drowsily  on  his  hard  pallet,    "another  day 

comes  out,  burthen' d  with  its  weight  of  woes.  Of  what  use  is  existence 
to  me?  Crush' d  down  beneath  the  merciless  heel  of  poverty,  and  no 
promise  of  hope  to  cheer  me  on,  what  have  I  in  prospect  but  a  life  neg 
lected,  and  a  death  of  misery  ?" 

The  youth  paused  j  but  receiving  no  answer  to  his  questions,  thought 
proper  to  continue  the  peevish  soliloquy.  "I  am  a  genius,  they  say,"  and 
the  speaker  smiled  bitterly,  "but  genius  is  not  apparel  and  food.  Why 
should  I  exist  in  the  world,  unknown,  unloved,  press' d  with  cares,  while 
so  many  around  me  have  all  their  souls  can  desire  ?  I  behold  the  splendid 
equipages  roll  by  —  I  see  the  respectful  bow  at  the  presence  of  pride  —  and 
I  curse  the  contrast  between  my  own  lot,  and  the  fortune  of  the  rich.  The 
lofty  air  —  the  show  of  dress  —  the  aristocratic  demeanor  —  the  glitter  of 
jewels  —  dazzle  my  eyes  }  and  sharp-tooth' d  envy  works  within  me.  I 
hate  these  haughty  and  favor' d  ones.  Why  should  my  path  be  so  much 
rougher  than  theirs  ?  Pitiable,  unfortunate  man  that  I  am  !  to  be  placed 
beneath  those  whom  in  my  heart  I  despise  — and  to  be  constantly  tantalized 
with  the  presence  of  that  wealth  I  cannot  enjoy  !  "  And  the  poet  cover' d 
his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  wept  from  very  passion  and  fretfulness. 

O,  Lingave  !  be  more  of  a  man  !  Have  you  not  the  treasures  of  health 
and  untainted  propensities,  which  many  of  those  you  envy  never  enjoy  ? 
Are  you  not  their  superior  in  mental  power,  in  liberal  views  of  mankind, 
and  in  comprehensive  intellect  ?  And  even  allowing  you  the  choice,  how 
would  you  shudder  at  changing,  in  total,  conditions  with  them  !  Besides, 
were  you  willing  to  devote  all  your  time  and  energies,  you  could  gain 
property  too  :  squeeze,  and  toil,  and  worry,  and  twist  everything  into  a 
matter  of  profit,  and  you  can  become  a  great  man,  as  far  as  money  goes  to 
make  greatness. 

Retreat,  then,  man  of  the  polish' d  soul,  from  those  irritable  complaints 
against  your  lot — those  longings  for  wealth  and  puerile  distinction,  not 
worthy  your  class.  Do  justice,  philosopher,  to  your  own  powers.  While 
the  world  runs  after  its  shadows  and  its  bubbles,  (thus  commune  in  your 
own  mind,)  we  will  fold  ourselves  in  our  circle  of  understanding,  and  look 
with  an  eye  of  apathy  on  those  things  it  considers  so  mighty  and  so  enviable. 
Let  the  proud  man  pass  with  his  pompous  glance  —  let  the  gay  flutter  in 
finery  —  let  the  foolish  enjoy  his  folly,  and  the  beautiful  move  on  in  his 
perishing  glory  j  we  will  gaze  without  desire  on  all  their  possessions,  and 
all  their  pleasures.  Our  destiny  is  different  from  theirs.  Not  for  such  as 
we,  the  lowly  flights  of  their  crippled  wings.  We  acknowledge  no  fellow- 


366  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ship  with  them  in  ambition.  We  composedly  look  down  on  the  paths 
where  they  walk,  and  pursue  our  own,  without  uttering  a  wish  to  descend, 
and  be  as  they.  What  is  it  to  us  that  the  mass  pay  us  not  that  deference 
which  wealth  commands  ?  We  desire  no  applause,  save  the  applause  of 
the  good  and  discriminating — the  choice  spirits  among  men.  Our  intel 
lect  would  be  sullied,  were  the  vulgar  to  approximate  to  it,  by  professing 
to  readily  enter  in,  and  praising  it.  Our  pride  is  a  towering,  and  thrice 
refined  pride. 

When  Lingave  had  given  way  to  his  temper  some  half  hour,  or  there 
about,  he  grew  more  calm,  and  bethought  himself  that  he  was  acting  a  very 
silly  part.  He  listen' d  a  moment  to  the  clatter  of  the  carts,  and  the  tramp 
of  early  passengers  on  the  pave  below,  as  they  wended  along  to  commence 
their  daily  toil.  It  was  just  sunrise,  and  the  season  was  summer.  A  little 
canary  bird,  the  only  pet  poor  Lingave  could  afford  to  keep,  chirp' d  mer 
rily  in  its  cage  on  the  wall.  How  slight  a  circumstance  will  sometimes 
change  the  whole  current  of  our  thoughts  !  The  music  of  that  bird  ab 
stracting  the  mind  of  the  poet  but  a  moment  from  his  sorrows,  gave  a 
chance  for  his  natural  buoyancy  to  act  again. 

Lingave  sprang  lightly  from  his  bed,  and  perform' d  his  ablutions  and  his 
simple  toilet — then  hanging  the  cage  on  a  nail  outside  the  window,  and 
speaking  an  endearment  to  the  songster,  which  brought  a  perfect  flood  of 
melody  in  return  —  he  slowly  passed  through  his  door,  descended  the  long 
narrow  turnings  of  the  stairs,  and  stood  in  the  open  street.  Undetermin'  d 
as  to  any  particular  destination,  he  folded  his  hands  behind  him,  cast  his 
glance  upon  the  ground,  and  moved  listlessly  onward. 

Hour  after  hour  the  poet  walk'd  along  —  up  this  street  and  down  that 
—  he  reck'  d  not  how  or  where.  And  as  crowded  thoroughfares  are  hardly 
the  most  fit  places  for  a  man  to  let  his  fancy  soar  in  the  clouds  —  many  a 
push  and  shove  and  curse  did  the  dreamer  get  bestow' d  upon  him. 

The  booming  of  the  city  clock  sounded  forth  the  hour  twelve  —  high 
noon. 

"  Ho  !  Lingave  ! "  cried  a  voice  from  an  open  basement  window  as  the 
poet  pass'd. 

He  stopp'd,  and  then  unwittingly  would  have  walked  on  still,  not  fully 
awaken' d  from  his  reverie. 

"Lingave,  I  say  !"  cried  the  voice  again,  and  the  person  to  whom  the 
voice  belong' d  stretch' d  his  head  quite  out  into  the  area  in  front,  "Stop 
man.  Have  you  forgotten  your  appointment  ? ' ' 

"Oh  !  ah  !"  said  the  poet,  and  he  smiled  unmeaningly,  and  descending 
the  steps,  went  into  the  office  of  Ridman,  whose  call  it  was  that  had  startled 
him  in  his  walk. 

Who  was  Ridman  ?  While  the  poet  is  waiting  the  convenience  of  that 
personage,  it  may  be  as  well  to  describe  him. 

Ridman  was  a  money-maker.  He  had  much  penetration,  considerable 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  disposition  to  be  constantly  in  the  midst  of 
enterprise,  excitement,  and  stir.  His  schemes  for  gaining  wealth  were 
various  ;  he  had  dipp'd  into  almost  every  branch  and  channel  of  business. 
A  slight  acquaintance  of  several  years'  standing  subsisted  between  him  and 
the  poet.  The  day  previous  a  boy  had  call1  d  with  a  note  from  Ridman  to 


COLLECT  367 

Lingave,  desiring  the  presence  of  the  latter  at  the  money-maker's  room. 
The  poet  return' d  for  answer  that  he  would  be  there.  This  was  the 
engagement  which  he  came  near  breaking. 

Ridman  had  a  smooth  tongue.  All  his  ingenuity  was  needed  in  the 
explanation  to  his  companion  of  why  and  wherefore  the  latter  had  been 
sent  for. 

It  is  not  requisite  to  state  specifically  the  offer  made  by  the  man  of  wealth 
to  the  poet.  Ridman,  in  one  of  his  enterprises,  found  it  necessary  to  pro 
cure  the  aid  of  such  a  person  as  Lingave  —  a  writer  of  power,  a  master  of 
elegant  diction,  of  fine  taste,  in  style  passionate  yet  pure,  and  of  the  deli 
cate  imagery  that  belongs  to  the  children  of  song.  The  youth  was  abso 
lutely  startled  at  the  magnificent  and  permanent  remuneration  which  was 
held  out  to  him  for  a  moderate  exercise  of  his  talents. 

But  the  nature  of  the  service  required  !  All  the  sophistry  and  art  of  Rid 
man  could  not  veil  its  repulsiveness.  The  poet  was  to  labor  for  the  ad 
vancement  of  what  he  felt  to  be  unholy  —  he  was  to  inculcate  what  would 
lower  the  perfection  of  man.  He  promised  to  give  an  answer  to  the  pro 
posal  the  succeeding  day,  and  left  the  place. 

Now  during  the  many  hours  there  was  a  war  going  on  in  the  heart  of 
the  poor  poet.  He  was  indeed  poor  ;  often  he  had  no  certainty  whether  he 
should  be  able  to  procure  the  next  day's  meals.  And  the  poet  knew  the 
beauty  of  truth,  and  adored,  not  in  the  abstract  merely,  but  in  practice,  the 
excellence  of  upright  principles. 

Night  came.  Lingave,  wearied,  lay  upon  his  pallet  again  and  slept. 
The  misty  veil  thrown  over  him,  the  spirit  of  poesy  came  to  his  visions,  and 
stood  beside  him,  and  look'd  down  pleasantly  with  her  large  eyes,  which 
were  bright  and  liquid  like  the  reflection  of  stars  in  a  lake. 

Virtue,  (such  imagining,  then,  seem'd  conscious  to  the  soul  of  the 
dreamer,)  is  ever  the  sinew  of  true  genius.  Together,  the  two  in  one, 
they  are  endow' d  with  immortal  strength,  and  approach  loftily  to  Him  from 
whom  both  spring.  Yet  there  are  those  that  having  great  powers,  bend 
them  to  the  slavery  of  wrong.  God  forgive  them  !  for  they  surely  do  it 
ignorantly  or  heedlessly.  Oh,  could  he  who  lightly  tosses  around  him  the 
seeds  of  evil  in  his  writings,  or  his  enduring  thoughts,  or  his  chance  words 
—  could  he  see  how,  haply,  they  are  to  spring  up  in  distant  time  and 
poison  the  air,  and  putrefy,  and  cause  to  sicken  —  would  he  not  shrink 
back  in  horror?  A  bad  principle,  jestingly  spoken  —  a  falsehood,  but  of 
a  word  —  may  taint  a  whole  nation  !  Let  the  man  to  whom  the  great 
Master  has  given  the  might  of  mind,  beware  how  he  uses  that  might.  If 
for  the  furtherance  of  bad  ends,  what  can  be  expected  but  that,  as  the  hour 
of  the  closing  scene  draws  nigh,  thoughts  of  harm  done,  and  capacities  dis 
torted  from  their  proper  aim,  and  strength  so  laid  out  that  men  must  be 
worse  instead  of  better,  through  the  exertion  of  that  strength  —  will  come 
and  swarm  like  spectres  around  him  ? 

"Be  and  continue  poor,  young  man,"  so  taught  one  whose  counsels 
should  be  graven  on  the  heart  of  every  youth,  "while  others  around  you 
grow  rich  by  fraud  and  disloyalty.  Be  without  place  and  power,  while 
others  beg  their  way  upward.  Bear  the  pain  of  disappointed  hopes,  while 
others  gain  the  accomplishment  of  their  flattery.  Forego  the  gracious  pres- 
25 


368  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

sure  of  a  hand,  for  which  others  cringe  and  crawl.  Wrap  yourself  in  your 
own  virtue,  and  seek  a  friend  and  your  daily  bread.  If  you  have,  in  such 
a  course,  grown  gray  with  unblench'd  honor,  bless  God  and  die." 

When  Lingave  awoke  the  next  morning,  he  despatched  his  answer  to  his 
wealthy  friend,  and  then  plodded  on  as  in  the  days  before. 

LITTLE  JANE  "Lift  up  !"  was  ejaculated  as  a  signal  !  and 

click  !  went  the  glasses  in  the  hands  of  a 

party  of  tipsy  men,  drinking  one  night  at  the  bar  of  one  of  the  middling 
order  of  taverns.  And  many  a  wild  gibe  was  utter'  d,  and  many  a  terrible 
blasphemy,  and  many  an  impure  phrase  sounded  out  the  pollution  of  the 
hearts  of  these  half-crazed  creatures,  as  they  toss'd  down  their  liquor,  and 
made  the  walls  echo  with  their  uproar.  The  first  and  foremost  in  reckless 
ness  was  a  girlish-faced,  fair-hair' d  fellow  of  twenty-two  or  three  years. 
They  called  him  Mike.  He  seem'  d  to  be  look'  d  upon  by  the  others  as  a  sort 
of  prompter,  from  whom  they  were  to  take  cue.  And  if  the  brazen  wicked 
ness  evinced  by  him  in  a  hundred  freaks  and  remarks  to  his  companions, 
during  their  stay  in  that  place,  were  any  test  of  his  capacity  —  there  might 
hardly  be  one  more  fit  to  go  forward  as  a  guide  on  the  road  of  destruction. 
From  the  conversation  of  the  party,  it  appear' d  that  they  had  been  spend 
ing  the  early  part  of  the  evening  in  a  gambling  house. 

A  second,  third  and  fourth  time  were  the  glasses  fill'd  j  and  the  effect 
thereof  began  to  be  perceiv'd  in  a  still  higher  degree  of  noise  and  loquacity 
among  the  revellers.  One  of  the  serving-men  came  in  at  this  moment,  and 
whisper' d  the  barkeeper,  who  went  out,  and  in  a  moment  return' d  again. 

"A  person,"  he  said,  "wish'd  to  speak  with  Mr.  Michael.  He  waited 
on  the  walk  in  front." 

The  individual  whose  name  was  mention' d,  made  his  excuses  to  the 
others,  telling  them  he  would  be  back  in  a  moment,  and  left  the  room. 
As  he  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  stepp'd  into  the  open  air,  he  saw  one 
of  his  brothers  —  his  elder  by  eight  or  ten  years  —  pacing  to  and  fro  with 
rapid  and  uneven  steps.  As  the  man  turn'd  in  his  walk,  and  the  glare  of 
the  street  lamp  fell  upon  his  face,  the  youth,  half-benumb' d  as  his  senses 
were,  was  somewhat  startled  at  its  paleness  and  evident  perturbation. 

"Come  with  me  ! "  said  the  elder  brother,  hurriedly,  "the  illness  of 
our  little  Jane  is  worse,  and  I  have  been  sent  for  you." 

"Poh  !"  answered  the  young  drunkard,  very  composedly,  "is  that  all? 
I  shall  be  home  by-and-by,"  and  he  turn'd  back  again. 

"But,  brother,  she  is  worse  than  ever  before.  Perhaps  when  you  arrive 
she  may  be  dtad" 

The  tipsy  one  paus'd  in  his  retreat,  perhaps  alarm' d  at  the  utterance  of 
that  dread  word,  which  seldom  fails  to  shoot  a  chill  to  the  hearts  of  mortals. 
But  he  soon  calm'd  himself,  and  waving  his  hand  to  the  other  : 

"Why,  see,"  said  he,  "a  score  of  times  at  least,  have  I  been  call'd 
away  to  the  last  sickness  of  our  good  little  sister  }  and  each  time  it  proves 
to  be  nothing  worse  than  some  whim  of  the  nurse  or  physician.  Three 
years  has  the  girl  been  able  to  live  very  heartily  under  her  disease  }  and  I'll 
be  bound  she'll  stay  on  earth  three  years  longer." 

And  as  he  concluded  this  wicked  and  most  brutal  reply,  the  speaker 


COLLECT  369 

open'd  the  door  and  went  into  the  bar-room.  But  in  his  intoxication, 
during  the  hour  that  followed,  Mike  was  far  from  being  at  ease.  At  the 
end  of  that  hour,  the  words,  "  perhaps  when  you  arrive  she  may  be  dead" 
were  not  effaced  from  his  hearing  yet,  and  he  started  for  home.  The  elder 
brother  had  wended  his  way  back  in  sorrow. 

Let  me  go  before  the  younger  one,  awhile,  to  a  room  in  that  home.  A 
little  girl  lay  there  dying.  She  had  been  ill  a  long  time ;  so  it  was  no  sud 
den  thing  for  her  parents,  and  her  brethren  and  sisters,  to  be  called  for  the 
witness  of  the  death  agony.  The  girl  was  not  what  might  be  called  beau 
tiful.  And  yet,  there  is  a  solemn  kind  of  loveliness  that  always  surrounds 
a  sick  child.  The  sympathy  for  the  weak  and  helpless  sufferer,  perhaps, 
increases  it  in  our  own  ideas.  The  ashiness  and  the  moisture  on  the  brow, 
and  the  film  over  the  eyeballs  —  what  man  can  look  upon  the  sight,  and 
not  feel  his  heart  awed  within  him  ?  Children,  I  have  sometimes  fancied 
too,  increase  in  beauty  as  their  illness  deepens. 

Besides  the  nearest  relatives  of  little  Jane,  standing  round  her  bedside, 
was  the  family  doctor.  He  had  just  laid  her  wrist  down  upon  the  coverlet, 
and  the  look  he  gave  the  mother,  was  a  look  in  which  there  was  no  hope. 

"  My  child  !"  she  cried,  in  uncontrollable  agony,  "O  !  my  child  !" 

And  the  father,  and  the  sons  and  daughters,  were  bowed  down  in  grief, 
and  thick  tears  rippled  between  the  fingers  held  before  their  eyes. 

Then  there  was  silence  awhile.  During  the  hour  just  by-gone,  Jane  had, 
in  her  childish  way,  bestow' d  a  little  gift  upon  each  of  her  kindred,  as  a 
remembrancer  when  she  should  be  dead  and  buried  in  the  grave.  And 
there  was  one  of  these  simple  tokens  which  had  not  reach' d  its  destination. 
She  held  it  in  her  hand  now.  It  was  a  very  small  much-thumbed  book  — 
a  religious  story  for  infants,  given  her  by  her  mother  when  she  had  first 
learn' d  to  read. 

While  they  were  all  keeping  this  solemn  stillness  — broken  only  by  the 
suppress' d  sobs  of  those  who  stood  and  watch' d  for  the  passing  away  of 
the  girl's  soul — a  confusion  of  some  one  entering  rudely,  and  speaking  in 
a  turbulent  voice,  was  heard  in  an  adjoining  apartment.  Again  the  voice 
roughly  sounded  out  j  it  was  the  voice  of  the  drunkard  Mike,  and  the 
father  bade  one  of  his  sons  go  and  quiet  the  intruder 

"If  nought  else  will  do,"  said  he  sternly,  "put  him  forth  by  strength. 
We  want  no  tipsy  brawlers  here,  to  disturb  such  a  scene  as  this." 

For  what  moved  the  sick  girl  uneasily  on  her  pillow,  and  raised  her  neck, 
and  motion' d  to  her  mother  ?  She  would  that  Mike  should  be  brought  to 
her  side.  And  it  was  enjoin' d  on  him  whom  the  father  had  bade  to  eject 
the  noisy  one,  that  he  should  tell  Mike  his  sister's  request,  and  beg  him  to 
come  to  her. 

He  came.  The  inebriate  —  his  mind  sober' d  by  the  deep  solemnity  of 
the  scene  —  stood  there,  and  leaned  over  to  catch  the  last  accounts  of  one 
who  soon  was  to  be  with  the  spirits  of  heaven.  All  was  the  silence  of  the 
deepest  night.  The  dying  child  held  the  young  man's  hand  in  one  of 
hers  5  with  the  other  she  slowly  lifted  the  trifling  memorial  she  had  assigned 
especially  for  him,  aloft  in  the  air.  Her  arm  shook  —  her  eyes,  now  be 
coming  glassy  with  the  death-damps,  were  cast  toward  her  brother's  face. 
She  smiled  pleasantly,  and  as  an  indistinct  gurgle  came  from  her  throat,  the 


370  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

uplifted  hand  fell  suddenly  into  the  open  palm  of  her  brother's,  depositing 
the  tiny  volume  there.  Little  Jane  was  dead. 

From  that  night,  the  young  man  stepped  no  more  in  his  wild  courses, 
but  was  reform' d. 

DUMB  KATE  Not  many  years  since  —  and  yet  long  enough 

to  have  been  before  the  abundance  of  railroads, 

and  similar  speedy  modes  of  conveyance  —  the  travelers  from  Amboy  village 
to  the  metropolis  of  our  republic  were  permitted  to  refresh  themselves,  and 
the  horses  of  the  stage  had  a  breathing  spell,  at  a  certain  old-fashion' d 
tavern,  about  half  way  between  the  two  places.  It  was  a  quaint,  com 
fortable,  ancient  house,  that  tavern.  Huge  buttonwood  trees  embower' d 
it  round  about,  and  there  was  a  long  porch  in  front,  the  trellis' d  work 
whereof,  though  old  and  moulder' d,  had  been,  and  promised  still  to  be  for 
years,  held  together  by  the  tangled  folds  of  a  grape  vine  wreath' d  about  it 
like  a  tremendous  serpent. 

How  clean  and  fragrant  everything  was  there  !  How  bright  the  pewter 
tankards  wherefrom  cider  or  ale  went  into  the  parch' d  throat  of  the  thirsty 
man  !  How  pleasing  to  look  into  the  expressive  eyes  of  Kate,  the  land 
lord's  lovely  daughter,  who  kept  everything  so  clean  and  bright  ! 

Now  the  reason  why  Kate's  eyes  had  become  so  expressive  was,  that, 
besides  their  proper  and  natural  office,  they  stood  to  the  poor  girl  in  the 
place  of  tongue  and  ears  also.  Kate  had  been  dumb  from  her  birth. 
Everybody  loved  the  helpless  creature  when  she  was  a  child.  Gentle, 
timid,  and  affectionate  was  she,  and  beautiful  as  the  lilies  of  which  she 
loved  to  cultivate  so  many  every  summer  in  her  garden.  Her  light  hair, 
and  the  like-color' d  lashes,  so  long  and  silky,  that  droop' d  over  her  blue 
eyes  of  such  uncommon  size  and  softness  —  her  rounded  shape,  well  set  off 
by  a  little  modest  art  of  dress  —  her  smile  —  the  graceful  ease  of  her  mo 
tions,  always  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  strangers  who  stopped  there, 
and  were  quite  a  pride  to  her  parents  and  friends. 

How  could  it  happen  that  so  beautiful  and  inoffensive  a  being  should 
taste,  even  to  its  dregs,  the  bitterest  unhappiness  ?  Oh,  there  must  indeed 
be  a  mysterious,  unfathomable  meaning  in  the  decrees  of  Providence  which 
is  beyond  the  comprehension  of  man  j  for  no  one  on  earth  less  deserved  or 
needed  "  the  uses  of  adversity"  than  Dumb  Kate.  Love,  the  mighty  and 
lawless  passion,  came  into  the  sanctuary  of  the  maid's  pure  breast,  and  the 
dove  of  peace  fled  away  forever. 

One  of  the  persons  who  had  occasion  to  stop  most  frequently  at  the 
tavern  kept  by  Dumb  Kate's  parents  was  a  young  man,  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  farmer,  who  own'd  an  estate  in  the  neighborhood.  He  saw  Kate, 
and  was  struck  with  her  natural  elegance.  Though  not  of  thoroughly 
wicked  propensities,  the  fascination  of  so  fine  a  prize  made  this  youth  deter 
mine  to  gain  her  love,  and,  if  possible,  to  win  her  to  himself.  At  first  he 
hardly  dared,  even  amid  the  depths  of  his  own  soul,  to  entertain  thoughts 
of  vileness  against  one  so  confiding  and  childlike.  But  in  a  short  time  such 
feelings  wore  away,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  become  the  betrayer  of 
poor  Kate.  He  was  a  good-looking  fellow,  and  made  but  too  sure  of  his 
victim.  Kate  was  lost ! 


COLLECT  37 l 

The  villain  came  to  New  York  soon  after,  and  engaged  in  a  business 
which  prosper' d  well,  and  which  has  no  doubt  by  this  time  made  him  what 
is  call' d  a  man  of  fortune. 

Not  long  did  sickness  of  the  heart  wear  into  the  life  and  happiness  of 
Dumb  Kate.  One  pleasant  spring  day,  the  neighbors  having  been  called 
by  a  notice  the  previous  morning,  the  old  churchyard  was  thrown  open, 
and  a  coffin  was  borne  over  the  early  grass  that  seem'd  so  delicate  with  its 
light  green  hue.  There  was  a  new  made  grave,  and  by  its  side  the  bier 

was  rested while  they  paused  a  moment  until  holy  words  had  been  said. 

An  idle  boy,  call'd  there  by  curiosity,  saw  something  lying  on  the  fresh 
earth  thrown  out  from  the  grave,  which  attracted  his  attention.  A  little 
blossom,  the  only  one  to  be  seen  around,  had  grown  exactly  on  the  spot 
where  the  sexton  chose  to  dig  poor  Kate's  last  resting-place.  It  was  a 
weak  but  lovely  flower,  and  now  lay  where  it  had  been  carelessly  toss'd 
amid  the  coarse  gravel.  The  boy  twirl' d  it  a  moment  in  his  fingers  —  the 
bruis'd  fragments  gave  out  a  momentary  perfume,  and  then  fell  to  the  edge 
of  the  pit,  over  which  the  child  at  that  moment  lean'd  and  gazed  in  his  in- 
quisitiveness.  As  they  dropp'd,  they  were  wafted  to  the  bottom  of  the 
grave.  The  last  look  was  bestow' d  on  the  dead  girl's  face  by  those  who 
loved  her  so  well  in  life,  and  then  she  was  softly  laid  away  to  her  sleep 
beneath  that  green  grass  covering. 

Yet  in  the  churchyard  on  the  hill  is  Kate's  grave.  There  stands  a  little 
white  stone  at  the  head,  and  verdure  grows  richly  there  ;  and  gossips,  some 
times  of  a  Sabbath  afternoon,  rambling  over  that  gathering-place  of  the  gone 
from  earth,  stop  a  while,  and  con  over  the  dumb  girl's  hapless  story. 

TALK  TO  AN  ART-  It  is  a  beautiful  truth  that  all  men  contain 
UNION  something  of  the  artist  in  them.  And  per- 

A  Brooklyn  fragment  haps  it  is  the  case  that  the  greatest  artists  live 

and  die,  the  world  and  themselves  alike  ig 
norant  what  they  possess.  Who  would  not  mourn  that  an  ample  palace, 
of  surpassingly  graceful  architecture,  fill'd  with  luxuries,  and  embellish' d 
with  fine  pictures  and  sculpture,  should  stand  cold  and  still  and  vacant,  and 
never  be  known  or  enjoy' d  by  its  owner  ?  Would  such  a  fact  as  this  cause 
your  sadness  ?  Then  be  sad.  For  there  is  a  palace,  to  which  the  courts 
of  the  most  sumptuous  kings  are  but  a  frivolous  patch,  and,  though  H 
always  waiting  for  them,  not  one  of  its  owners  ever  enters  there  with  any 
genuine  sense  of  its  grandeur  and  glory. 

I  think  of  few  heroic  actions,  which  cannot  be  traced  to  the  artistical 
pulse.      He  who  does  great  deeds,  does  them  from  his  innate  sensitiveness 
to   moral  beauty.      Such  men  are  not  merely  artists,  they  are  also  artis 
material.      Washington  in  some  great  crisis,  Lawrence  on  the  bloody  deck 
of  the  Chesapeake,  Mary  Stuart  at  the  block,  Kossuth  in  captivity,  and 
Mazzini   in   exile  —  all   great   rebels   and   innovators,    exhibit    the    highest 
phases  of  the   artist  spirit.      The  painter,  the  sculptor,  the  poet,  express 
heroic  beauty  better  in  description  ;  but  the  others  are  heroic  beauty,  the 
best  belov'  d  of  art. 

Talk  not  so  much,  then,  young  artist,  of  the  great  old  masters,  who  bi 
painted  and  chisell'd.      Study  not  only  their  productions. 


372  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

higher  school  for  him  who  would  kindle  his  fire  with  coal  from  the  altar  of 
the  loftiest  and  purest  art.  It  is  the  school  of  all  grand  actions  and  grand 
virtues,  of  heroism,  of  the  death  of  patriots  and  martyrs  —  of  all  the  mighty 
deeds  written  in  the  pages  of  history  —  deeds  of  daring,  and  enthusiasm, 
devotion,  and  fortitude. 

BLOOD-MONEY 

"  Guilty  of  the  body  and  the  blood  of  Christ." 

I. 

OF  olden  time,  when  it  came  to  pass 

That  the  beautiful  god,  Jesus,  should  finish  his  work  on  earth, 

Then  went  Judas,  and  sold  the  divine  youth, 

And  took  pay  for  his  body. 

Curs' d  was  the  deed,  even  before  the  sweat  of  the  clutching  hand  grew  dry  j 

And  darkness  frown' d  upon  the  seller  of  the  like  of  God, 

Where,  as  though  earth  lifted  her  breast  to  throw  him  from  her,  and  heaven 

refused  him, 
He  hung  in  the  air,  self-slaughter' d. 

The  cycles,  with  their  long  shadows,  have  stalk' d  silently  forward, 
Since  those  ancient  days  —  many  a  pouch  enwrapping  meanwhile 
Its  fee,  like  that  paid  for  the  son  of  Mary. 

And  still  goes  one,  saying, 

"  What  will  ye  give  me,  and  I  will  deliver  this  man  unto  you?" 

And  they  make  the  covenant,  and  pay  the  pieces  of  silver. 

II 

Look  forth,  deliverer, 

Look  forth,  first-born  of  the  dead, 

Over  the  tree-tops  of  Paradise  j 

See  thyself  in  yet  continued  bonds, 

Toilsome  and  poor,  thou  bear'st  man's  form  again, 

Thou  art  reviled,  scourged,  put  into  prison, 

Hunted  from  the  arrogant  equality  of  the  rest  j 

With  staves  and  swords  throng  the  willing  servants  of  authority, 

Again  they  surround  thee,  mad  with  devilish  spite  ; 

Toward  thee  stretch  the  hands  of  a  multitude,  like  vultures'  talons, 

The  meanest  spit  in  thy  face,  they  smite  thee  with  their  palms  j 

Bruised,  bloody,  and  pinion' d  is  thy  body, 

More  sorrowful  than  death  is  thy  soul. 


Witness  of  anguish,  brother  of  slaves, 

Not  with  thy  price  closed  the  price  of  thine  image  : 

And  still  Iscariot  plies  his  trade. 

April,  1843.  PAUMANOK. 


COLLECT  373 

WOUNDED  IN    THE   HOUSE   OF    FRIENDS 

»  And  one  shall  say  unto  him,  What  are  these  wounds  in  thy  hands  t     Then  he  shall  answer 
oie  with  which  I  was  wounded  in  the  house  of  my  friends.   —Ztchariah,  xm.  6. 

IF  thou  art  balk'd,  O  Freedom, 
The  victory  is  not  to  thy  manlier  foes  ; 
From  the  house  of  friends  comes  the  death  stab. 

Virginia,  mother  of  greatness, 
Blush  not  for  being  also  mother  of  slaves  j 
You  might  have  borne  deeper  slaves  — 
Doughfaces,  crawlers,  lice  of  humanity  — 
Terrific  screamers  of  freedom, 
Who  roar  and  bawl,  and  get  hot  i'  the  face, 
But  were  they  not  incapable  of  august  crime, 
Would  quench  the  hopes  of  ages  for  a  drink  — 
Muck-worms,  creeping  flat  to  the  ground, 
A  dollar  dearer  to  them  than  Christ's  blessing  j 
All  loves,  all  hopes,  less  than  the  thought  of  gain, 
In  life  walking  in  that  as  in  a  shroud  j 
Men  whom  the  throes  of  heroes, 
Great  deeds  at  which  the  gods  might  stand  appal' d, 
The  shriek  of  the  drown' d,  the  appeal  of  women, 
The  exulting  laugh  of  untied  empires, 
Would  touch  them  never  in  the  heart, 
But  only  in  the  pocket. 

Hot-headed  Carolina, 
Well  may  you  curl  your  lip  ; 
With  all  your  bondsmen,  bless  the  destiny 
Which  brings  you  no  such  breed  as  this. 

Arise,  young  North  ! 

Our  elder  blood  flows  in  the  veins  of  cowards  : 
The  gray-hair' d  sneak,  the  blanch' d  poltroon, 
The  feign' d  or  real  shiverer  at  tongues, 
That  nursing  babes  need  hardly  cry  the  less  for  — 
Are  they  to  be  our  tokens  always  ? 

SAILING    THE   MISSISSIPPI    AT    MIDNIGHT 

VAST  and  starless,  the  pall  of  heaven 

Laps  on  the  trailing  pall  below  ; 
And  forward,  forward,  in  solemn  darkness, 

As  if  to  the  sea  of  the  lost  we  go. 

Now  drawn  nigh  the  edge  of  the  river, 

Weird-like  creatures  suddenly  rise  j 
Shapes  that  fade,  dissolving  outlines 

Baffle  the  gazer's  straining  eyes. 


374  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Towering  upward  and  bending  forward, 
Wild  and  wide  their  arms  are  thrown, 

Ready  to  pierce  with  forked  fingers 
Him  who  touches  their  realm  upon. 

Tide  of  youth,  thus  thickly  planted, 
While  in  the  eddies  onward  you  swim, 

Thus  on  the  shore  stands  a  phantom  army, 
Lining  forever  the  channel's  rim. 

Steady,  helmsman  !  you  guide  the  immortal  j 
Many  a  wreck  is  beneath  you  piled, 

Many  a  brave  yet  unwary  sailor 

Over  these  waters  has  been  beguiled. 

Nor  is  it  the  storm  or  the  scowling  midnight, 
Cold,  or  sickness,  or  fire's  dismay  — 

Nor  is  it  the  reef,  or  treacherous  quicksand, 
Will  peril  you  most  on  your  twisted  way. 

But  when  there  comes  a  voluptuous  languor, 
Soft  the  sunshine,  silent  the  air, 

Bewitching  your  craft  with  safety  and  sweetness, 
Then,  young  pilot  of  life,  beware. 


NOVEMBER   BOUGHS 


OUR   EMINENT  VISITORS 

Past,  Present  and  Future 

WELCOME  to  them  each  and  all  !  They  do  good— the  deepest, 
widest,  most  needed  good  —  though  quite  certainly  not  in  the  ways 
attempted  — which  have,  at  times,  something  irresistibly  comic. 
What  can  be  more  farcical,  for  instance,  than  the  sight  of  a  worthy 
gentleman  coming  three  or  four  thousand  miles  through  wet  and  wind 
to  speak  complacently  and  at  great  length  on  matters  of  which  he  both 
entirely  mistakes  or  knows  nothing  —  before  crowds  of  auditors  equally 
complacent,  and  equally  at  fault  ? 

Yet  welcome  and  thanks,  we  say,  to  those  visitors  we  have,  and 
have  had,  from  abroad  among  us  — and  may  the  procession  continue  ! 
We  have  had  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  Froude,  Herbert  Spencer, 
Oscar  Wilde,  Lord  Coleridge  —  soldiers,  savants,  poets  —  and  now 
Matthew  Arnold  and  Irving  the  actor.  Some  have  come  to  make 

money some  for  a  "  good  time  "    —  some  to  help  us  along  and  give 

us  advice  —  and  some  undoubtedly  to  investigate,  bona  fde,  this  great 
problem,  democratic  America,  looming  upon  the  world  with  such  cumu 
lative  power  through  a  hundred  years,  now  with  the  evident  intention 
(since  the  secession  war)  to  stay,  and  take  a  leading  hand,  for  many 
a  century  to  come,  in  civilization's  and  humanity's  eternal  game.  But 
alas  !  that  very  investigation  —  the  method  of  that  investigation  —  is 
where  the  deficit  most  surely  and  helplessly  comes  in.  Let  not  Lord 
Coleridge  and  Mr.  Arnold  (to  say  nothing  of  the  illustrious  actor) 
imagine  that  when  they  have  met  and  survey 'd  the  etiquettical  gather 
ings  of  our  wealthy,  distinguish' d  and  sure-to-be-put-forward-on-such- 
occasions  citizens  (New  York,  Boston,  Philadelphia,  &c.,  have  certain 
stereotyped  strings  of  them,  continually  lined  and  paraded  like  the  lists 
of  dishes  at  hotel  tables  —  you  are  sure  to  get  the  same  over  and  over 
again  —  it  is  very  amusing) — and  the  bowing  and  introducing,  the 
receptions  at  the  swell  clubs,  the  eating  and  drinking  and  praising  and 
praising  back  —  and  the  next  day  riding  about  Central  Park,  or  doing 
the  "  Public  Institutions  "  — and  so  passing  through,  one  after  another, 
the  full-dress  coteries  of  the  Atlantic  cities,  all  grammatical  and  cultured 
and  correct,  with  the  toned-down  manners  of  the  gentlemen,  and  the 


378  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

kid-gloves,  and  luncheons  and  finger-glasses  —  Let  not  our  eminent 
visitors,  we  say,  suppose  that,  by  means  of  these  experiences,  they 
have  "seen  America, "  or  captur'd  any  distinctive  clew  or  purport 
thereof.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Of  the  pulse-beats  that  lie  within  and 
vitalize  this  Commonweal  to-day  —  of  the  hard-pan  purports  and 
idiosyncrasies  pursued  faithfully  and  triumphantly  by  its  bulk  of  men 
North  and  South,  generation  after  generation,  superficially  unconscious 
of  their  own  aims,  yet  none  the  less  pressing  onward  with  deathless 
intuition  —  those  coteries  do  not  furnish  the  faintest  scintilla.  In  the 
Old  World  the  best  flavor  and  significance  of  a  race  may  possibly  need 
to  be  look'd  for  in  its  "  upper  classes,"  its  gentries,  its  court,  its  etat 
major.  In  the  United  States  the  rule  is  revers'd.  Besides  (and  a 
point,  this,  perhaps  deepest  of  all,)  the  special  marks  of  our  grouping 
and  design  are  not  going  to  be  understood  in  a  hurry.  The  lesson 
and  scanning  right  on  the  ground  are  difficult ;  I  was  going  to  say  they 
are  impossible  to  foreigners  —  but  I  have  occasionally  found  the  clearest 
appreciation  of  all,  coming  from  far-off  quarters.  Surely  nothing 
could  be  more  apt,  not  only  for  our  eminent  visitors  present  and  to 
come,  but  for  home  study,  than  the  following  editorial  criticism  of 
the  London  Times  on  Mr.  Froude' s  visits  and  lectures  here  a  few  years 
ago,  and  the  culminating  dinner  given  at  Delmonico's,  with  its  brilliant 
array  of  guests : 

"We  read  the  list,"  says  the  Times,  "of  those  who  assembled  to  do 
honor  to  Mr.  Froude  :  there  were  Mr.  Emerson,  Mr.  Beecher,  Mr.  Curtis, 
Mr.  Bryant  j  we  add  the  names  of  those  who  sent  letters  of  regret  that  they 
could  not  attend  in  person  —  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Whittier.  They  are 
names  which  are  well  known  — almost  as  well  known  and  as  much  honor' d 
in  England  as  in  America  ;  and  yet  what  must  we  say  in  the  end  ?  The 
American  people  outside  this  assemblage  of  writers  is  something  vaster  and 
greater  than  they,  singly  or  together,  can  comprehend.  It  cannot  be  said 
of  any  or  all  of  them  that  they  can  speak  for  their  nation.  We  who  look 
on  at  this  distance  are  able  perhaps  on  that  account  to  see  the  more  clearly 
that  there  are  qualities  of  the  American  people  which  find  no  representation, 
no  voice,  among  these  their  spokesmen.  And  what  is  true  of  them  is  true 
of  the  English  class  of  whom  Mr.  Froude  may  be  said  to  be  the  ambas 
sador.  Mr.  Froude  is  master  of  a  charming  style.  He  has  the  gift  of 
grace  and  the  gift  of  sympathy.  Taking  any  single  character  as  the  sub 
ject  of  his  study,  he  may  succeed  after  a  very  short  time  in  so  comprehend 
ing  its  workings  as  to  be  able  to  present  a  living  figure  to  the  intelligence 
and  memory  of  his  readers.  But  the  movements  of  a  nation,  the  voiceless 
purpose  of  a  people  ivbicb  cannot  put  its  o<wn  thoughts  into  ivordsy  yet  acts  upon 
them  in  each  successive  generation  —  these  things  do  not  lie  within  his  grasp. 
.  .  .  The  functions  of  literature  such  as  he  represents  are  limited  in  their 
action  j  the  influence  he  can  wield  is  artificial  and  restricted,  and,  while  he 
and  his  hearers  please  and  are  pleas'  d  with  pleasant  periods,  his  great  mass 
of  national  life  will  flow  around  them  unmov'd  in  its  tides  by  action  as 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  379 

powerless  as  that  of  the  dwellers  by  the  shore  to  direct  the  currents  of  the 


ocean. 


tan. 

A  thought,  here,  that  needs  to  be  echoed,  expanded,  permanently 
treasured  by  our  literary  classes  and  educators.  (The  gestation,  tlv 
youth,  the  knitting  preparations,  are  now  over,  and  it  is  full  time 
for  definite  purpose,  result.)  How  few  think  of  it,  though  it  is  the 
impetus  and  background  of  our  whole  Nationality  and  popular  lite. 
In  the  present  brief  memorandum  I  very  likely  for  the  first  time 
awake  "the  intelligent  reader"  to  the  idea  and  inquiry  whether 
there  isn't  such  a  thing  as  the  distinctive  genius  of  our  democratic 
New  World,  universal,  immanent,  bringing  to  a  head  the 
experience  of  the  past  — not  specially  literary  or  intellectual —not 
merely  "good,"  (in  the  Sunday  School  and  Temperance  Society 
sense,)— some  invisible  spine  and  great  sympathetic  to  these  States, 
resident  only  in  the  average  people,  in  their  practical  life,  in  their 
physiology,  in  their  emotions,  in  their  nebulous  yet  fiery  patriotism, 
in  the  armies  (both  sides)  through  the  whole  secession  war  — an 
identity  and  character  which  indeed  so  far  "finds  no  voice  among 
their  spokesmen." 

To  my   mind  America,  vast  and  fruitful   as  it   appears   to-day,  is 
even  yet,   for  its    most    important    results,    entirely  in   the   tentative 
state;  its    very    formation-stir    and    whirling   trials    and   essays   more 
splendid    and    picturesque,    to    my    thinking,    than   the    accomplish  d 
growths   and  shows   of  other    lands,   through    European    history,   or 
Greece,   or    all  the   past.      Surely  a  New  World   literature,  worthy 
the  name,  is  not  to  be,  if  it  ever  comes,  some  fiction,  or  fancy,  or 
bit  of  sentimentalism  or  polish' d  work   merely  by  itself,   or  in  ab 
straction.      So  long  as  such  literature  is  no  born  branch  and  offshoot 
of  the  Nationality,  rooted  and  grown  from  its  roots,  and  fibred  with 
its  fibre,  it  can  never  answer  any  deep  call  or  perennial  need.      Per 
haps   the  untaught   Republic  is  wiser  than   its   teachers.      The  1 
literature  is  always  a  result  of  something  far  greater  than  itself— not 
the  hero,  but  the  portrait  of  the  hero.      Before  there  can  be  recorded 
history  or   poem   there    must    be    the   transaction.      Beyond  the    old 
masterpieces,    the    Iliad,  the    interminable    Hindu   epics,    the  Greek 
tragedies,   even  the    Bible  itself,   range    the  immense  facts  of  what 
must  have  preceded  them,  their  sine  qua  non—  the  veritable  poems 
and  masterpieces,  of  which,  grand  as   they  are,  the  word-statements 
are  but  shreds  and  cartoons. 

For  to-day   and   the  States,   I   think    the  vividest,   rapidest,    mos 
stupendous  processes  ever  known,  ever  perform' d  by  man  or  nation, 
on  the  largest  scales  and    in   countless  varieties,   are  now  and  here 
presented.      Not  as   our  poets  and  preachers  are  always   convention 
ally   putting    it  — but    quite   different.      Some    colossal   foundry,    the 


380  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

flaming  of  the  fire,  the  melted  metal,  the  pounding  trip-hammers,  the 
surging  crowds  of  workmen  shifting  from  point  to  point,  the  murky 
shadows,  the  rolling  haze,  the  discord,  the  crudeness,  the  deafening 
din,  the  disorder,  the  dross  and  clouds  of  dust,  the  waste  and  extrav 
agance  of  material,  the  shafts  of  darted  sunshine  through  the  vast 
open  roof-scuttles  aloft  — the  mighty  castings,  many  of  them  not  yet 
fitted,  perhaps  delay 'd  long,  yet  each  in  its  due  time,  with  definite 
place  and  use  and  meaning  —  Such,  more  like,  is  a  symbol  of 
America. 

After  all  of  which,  returning  to  our  starting-point,  we  reiterate, 
and  in  the  whole  Land's  name,  a  welcome  to  our  eminent  guests. 
Visits  like  theirs,  and  hospitalities,  and  hand-shaking,  and  face  meet 
ing  face,  and  the  distant  brought  near  — what  divine  solvents  they 
are!  Travel,  reciprocity,  "interviewing,"  intercommunion  of  lands 
—  what  are  they  but  Democracy's  and  the  highest  Law's  best  aids  ? 
O  that  our  own  country  —  that  every  land  in  the  world  —  could 
annually,  continually,  receive  the  poets,  thinkers,  scientists,  even  the 
official  magnates,  of  other  lands,  as  honor' d  guests.  O  that  the 
United  States,  especially  the  West,  could  have  had  a  good  long  visit 
and  explorative  jaunt,  from  the  noble  and  melancholy  Tourgu^neff, 
before  he  died  —  or  from  Victor  Hugo  —  or  Thomas  Carlyle. 
Castelar,  Tennyson,  any  of  the  two  or  three  great  Parisian  essayists 
—were  they  and  we  to  come  face  to  face,  how  is  it  possible  but  that 
the  right  understanding  would  ensue  ? 


THE  BIBLE  AS  POETRY 


I  SUPPOSE  one  cannot  at  this  day  say  anything  new,  from  a  literary 
point  of  view,  about  those  autochthonic  bequests  of  Asia — the  Hebrew 
Bible,  the  mighty  Hindu  epics,  and  a  hundred  lesser  but  typical  works ; 
(not  now  definitely  including  the  Iliad  —  though  that  work  was  cer 
tainly  of  Asiatic  genesis,  as  Homer  himself  was  —  considerations  which 
seem  curiously  ignored.)  But  will  there  ever  be  a  time  or  place  — 
ever  a  student,  however  modern,  of  the  grand  art,  to  whom  those 
compositions  will  not  afford  profounder  lessons  than  all  else  of  their 
kind  in  the  garnerage  of  the  past  ?  Could  there  be  any  more  oppor 
tune  suggestion,  to  the  current  popular  writer  and  reader  of  verse, 
what  the  office  of  poet  was  in  primeval  times  —  and  is  yet  capable  of 
being,  anew,  adjusted  entirely  to  the  modern  ? 

All  the  poems  of  Orientalism,  with  the  Old  and  New  Testaments 
at  the  centre,  tend  to  deep  and  wide,  (I  don't  know  but  the  deepest 
and  widest,)  psychological  development  —  with  little,  or  nothing  at 
all,  of  the  mere  esthetic,  the  principal  verse-requirement  of  our  day. 
Very  late,  but  unerringly,  comes  to  every  capable  student  the  percep 
tion  that  it  is  not  in  beauty,  it  is  not  in  art,  it  is  not  even  in  science, 
that  the  profoundest  laws  of  the  case  have  their  eternal  sway  and  out 
cropping. 

In  his  discourse  on  "Hebrew  Poets"  De  Sola  Mendes  said: 
"The  fundamental  feature  of  Judaism,  of  the  Hebrew  nationality, 
was  religion;  its  poetry  was  naturally  religious.  Its  subjects,  God 
and  Providence,  the  covenants  with  Israel,  God  in  Nature,  and  as 
reveal' d,  God  the  Creator  and  Governor,  Nature  in  her  majesty  and 
beauty,  inspired  hymns  and  odes  to  Nature's  God.  And  then  the 
checker' d  history  of  the  nation  furnish' d  allusions,  illustrations,  and 
subjects  for  epic  display  —  the  glory  of  the  sanctuary,  the  offerings,  the 
splendid  ritual,  the  Holy  City,  and  lov'd  Palestine  with  its  pleasant 
valleys  and  wild  tracts."  Dr.  Mendes  said  "that  rhyming  was  not 
a  characteristic  of  Hebrew  poetry  at  all.  Metre  was  not  a  necessary 
mark  of  poetry.  Great  poets  discarded  it ;  the  early  Jewish  poets 
knew  it  not." 


382  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Compared  with  the  famed  epics  of  Greece,  and  lesser  ones  since, 
the  spinal  supports  of  the  Bible  are  simple  and  meagre.  All  its  history, 
biography,  narratives,  &c.,  are  as  beads,  strung  on  and  indicating  the 
eternal  thread  of  the  Deific  purpose  and  power.  Yet  with  only  deepest 
faith  for  impetus,  and  such  Deific  purpose  for  palpable  or  impalpable 
theme,  it  often  transcends  the  masterpieces  of  Hellas,  and  all  master 
pieces.  The  metaphors  daring  beyond  account,  the  lawless  soul, 
extravagant  by  our  standards,  the  glow  of  love  and  friendship,  the 
fervent  kiss  —  nothing  in  argument  or  logic,  but  unsurpass'd  in 
proverbs,  in  religious  ecstasy,  in  suggestions  of  common  mortality  and 
death,  man's  great  equalizers  —  the  spirit  everything,  the  ceremonies 
and  forms  of  the  churches  nothing,  faith  limitless,  its  immense  sensu- 
ousness  immensely  spiritual  —  an  incredible,  all-inclusive  non-worldli- 
ness  and  dew-scented  illiteracy  (the  antipodes  of  our  Nineteenth 
Century  business  absorption  and  morbid  refinement)  — no  hair-splitting 
doubts,  no  sickly  sulking  and  sniffling,  no  "Hamlet,"  no  "Adonais," 
no  "Thanatopsis,"  no  "In  Memoriam." 

The  culminated  proof  of  the  poetry  of  a  country  is  the  quality  of  its 
personnel,  which,  in  any  race,  can  never  be  really  superior  without 
superior  poems.  The  finest  blending  of  individuality  with  universality 
(in  my  opinion  nothing  out  of  the  galaxies  of  the  "Iliad,"  or  Shak- 
spere's  heroes,  or  from  the  Tennysonian  "Idylls,"  so  lofty,  devoted 
and  starlike,)  typified  in  the  songs  of  those  old  Asiatic  lands.  Men 
and  women  as  great  columnar  trees.  Nowhere  else  the  abnegation  of 
self  towering  in  such  quaint  sublimity  ;  nowhere  else  the  simplest 
human  emotions  conquering  the  gods  of  heaven,  and  fate  itself.  (The 
episode,  for  instance,  toward  the  close  of  the  "  Mahabharata  " — the 
journey  of  the  wife  Savitri  with  the  god  of  death,  Yama, 

"  One  terrible  to  see  —  blood-red  his  garb, 
His  body  huge  and  dark,  bloodshot  his  eyes, 
Which  flamed  like  suns  beneath  his  turban  cloth, 
Arm'd  was  he  with  a  noose," 

who  carries  off  the  soul  of  the  dead  husband,  the  wife  tenaciously 
following,  and  —  by  the  resistless  charm  of  perfect  poetic  recitation  !  — 
eventually  redeeming  her  captive  mate. ) 

I  remember  how  enthusiastically  William  H.  Seward,  in  his  last 
days,  once  expatiated  on  these  themes,  from  his  travels  in  Turkey, 
Egypt,  and  Asia  Minor,  finding  the  oldest  Biblical  narratives  exactly 
illustrated  there  to-day  with  apparently  no  break  or  change  along  three 
thousand  years  —  the  veil'd  women,  the  costumes,  the  gravity  and  sim 
plicity,  all  the  manners  just  the  same.  The  veteran  Trelawney  said  he 
found  the  only  real  nobleman  of  the  world  in  a  good  average  specimen 
of  the  mid-aged  or  elderly  Oriental.  In  the  East  the  grand  figure,  always 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  383 

leading,  is  the  old  man,  majestic,  with  flowing  beard,  paternal,  &c. 
In  Europe  and  America,  it  is,  as  we  know,  the  young  fellow  — in 
novels,  a  handsome  and  interesting  hero,  more  or  less  juvenile  —  in 
operas,  a  tenor  with  blooming  cheeks,  black  mustache,  superficial  ani 
mation,  and  perhaps  good  lungs,  but  no  more  depth  than  skim-milk. 
But  reading  folks  probably  get  their  information  of  those  Bible  areas 
and  current  peoples,  as  depicted  in  print  by  English  and  French  cads, 
the  most  shallow,  impudent,  supercilious  brood  on  earth. 

I  have  said  nothing  yet  of  the  cumulus  of  associations  (perfectly 
legitimate  parts  of  its  influence,  and  finally  in  many  respects  the  domi 
nant  parts,)  of  the  Bible  as  a  poetic  entity,  and  of  every  portion  of  it. 
Not  the  old  edifice  only  —  the  congeries  also  of  events  and  struggles 
and  surroundings,  of  which  it  has  been  the  scene  and  motive  —  even 
the  horrors,  dreads,  deaths.  How  many  ages  and  generations  have 
brooded  and  wept  and  agonized  over  this  book  !  What  untellable 
joys  and  ecstasies  —  what  support  to  martyrs  at  the  stake  —  from  it. 
(No  really  great  song  can  ever  attain  full  purport  till  long  after  the 
death  of  its  singer  —  till  it  has  accrued  and  incorporated  the  many 
passions,  many  joys  and  sorrows,  it  has  itself  arous'd.)  To  what 
myriads  has  it  been  the  shore  and  rock  of  safety  —  the  refuge  from 
driving  tempest  and  wreck  !  Translated  in  all  languages,  how  it  has 
united  this  diverse  world  !  Of  civilized  lands  to-day,  whose  of  our 
retrospects  has  it  not  interwoven  and  link'd  and  permeated?  Not 
only  does  it  bring  us  what  is  clasp' d  within  its  covers  ;  nay,  that  is 
the  least  of  what  it  brings.  Of  its  thousands,  there  is  not  averse,  not 
a  word,  but  is  thick-studded  with  human  emotions,  successions  of 
fathers  and  sons,  mothers  and  daughters,  of  our  own  antecedents,  in 
separable  from  that  background  of  us,  on  which,  phantasmal  as  it  is, 
all  that  we  are  to-day  inevitably  depends  —  our  ancestry,  our  past. 

Strange,  but  true,  that  the  principal  factor  in  cohering  the  nations, 
eras  and  paradoxes  of  the  globe,  by  giving  them  a  common  platform 
of  two  or  three  great  ideas,  a  commonalty  of  origin,  and  projecting 
kosmic  brotherhood,  the  dream  of  all  hope,  all  time  —  that  the  long 
trains  gestations,  attempts  and  failures,  resulting  in  the  New  World, 
and  in  modern  solidarity  and  politics  —  are  to  be  identified  and  resolv'd 
back  into  a  collection  of  old  poetic  lore,  which,  more  than  any  one 
thing  else,  has  been  the  axis  of  civilization  and  history  through  thou 
sands  of  years and  except  for  which  this  America  of  ours,  with  its 

polity  and  essentials,  could  not  now  be  existing. 

No  true  bard  will  ever  contravene  the  Bible.  If  the  time  ever 
comes  when  iconoclasm  does  its  extremest  in  one  direction  against  the 
Books  of  the  Bible  in  its  present  form,  the  collection  must  still  survive 
in  another,  and  dominate  just  as  much  as  hitherto,  or  more  than 
hitherto,  through  its  divine  and  primal  poetic  structure.  To  me,  that 
26 


384  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

is  the  living  and  definite  element-principle  of  the  work,  evolving  every 
thing    else.     Then    the    continuity ;    the  oldest    and   newest   Asiatic 
utterance  and  character,  and  all  between,  holding  together,  like  the 
apparition  of  the  sky,  and  coming  to  us  the  same.      Even  to  our  Nine 
teenth  Century  here  are  the  fountain  heads  of  song. 


FATHER  TAYLOR  (AND 
ORATORY) 


I  HAVE  never  heard  but  one  essentially  perfect  orator  —  one  who 
satisfied  those  depths  of  the  emotional  nature  that  in  most  cases  go 
through  life  quite  untouch'd,  unfed  —  who  held  every  hearer  by  spells 
which  no  conventionalist,  high  or  low — nor  any  pride  or  composure, 
nor  resistance  of  intellect  —  could  stand  against  for  ten  minutes. 

And  by  the  way,  is  it  not  strange,  of  this  first-class  genius  in  the 
rarest  and  most  profound  of  humanity's  arts,  that  it  will  be  necessary, 
(so  nearly  forgotten  and  rubb'd  out  is  his  name  by  the  rushing  whirl 
of  the  last  twenty-five  years,)  to  first  inform  current  readers  that  he 
was  an  orthodox  minister,  of  no  particular  celebrity,  who  during  a 
long  life  preach' d  especially  to  Yankee  sailors  in  an  old  fourth-class 
church  down  by  the  wharves  in  Boston  —  had  practically  been  a  sea 
faring  man  through  his  earlier  years  —  and  died  April  6,  1871,  "just 
as  the  tide  turn'd,  going  out  with  the  ebb  as  an  old  salt  should  "  ? 
His  name  is  now  comparatively  unknown,  outside  of  Boston — and 
even  there,  (though  Dickens,  Mr.  Jameson,  Dr.  Bartol  and  Bishop 
Haven  have  commemorated  him,)  is  mostly  but  a  reminiscence. 

During  my  visits  to  "the  Hub,"  in  1859  and  '60  I  several  times 
saw  and  heard  Father  Taylor.  In  the  spring  or  autumn,  quiet  Sunday 
forenoons,  I  liked  to  go  down  early  to  the  quaint  ship-cabin-looking 
church  where  the  old  man  minister' d  —  to  enter  and  leisurely  scan  the 
building,  the  low  ceiling,  everything  strongly  timber'd  (polish'd  and 
rubb'd  apparently,)  the  dark  rich  colors,  the  gallery,  all  in  half-light 

and  smell  the  aroma  of  old  wood  —  to  watch  the  auditors,  sailors, 

mates,   "matlows,"   officers,  singly  or  in  groups,  as  they  came  in- 
their  physiognomies,  forms,  dress,  gait,  as  they  walk' d  along  the  aisles 

their  postures,  seating  themselves  in  the  rude,  roomy,  undoor'd, 

uncushion'd  pews  —  and  the  evident  effect  upon  them  of  the  place, 
occasion,  and  atmosphere. 

The  pulpit,  rising  ten  or  twelve   feet  high,  against  the  rear  wall, 


386  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

was  back'd  by  a  significant  mural  painting,  in  oil  —  showing  out  its 
bold  lines  and  strong  hues  through  the  subdued  light  of  the  building  — 
of  a  stormy  sea,  the  waves  high-rolling,  and  amid  them  an  old-style 
ship,  all  bent  over,  driving  through  the  gale,  and  in  great  peril  —  a 
vivid  and  effectual  piece  of  limning,  not  meant  for  the  criticism  of 
artists  (though  I  think  it  had  merit  even  from  that  standpoint,)  but 
for  its  effect  upon  the  congregation,  and  what  it  would  convey  to 
them. 

Father  Taylor  was  a  moderate-sized  man,  indeed  almost  small, 
(reminded  me  of  old  Booth,  the  great  actor,  and  my  favorite  of  those 
and  preceding  days,)  well  advanced  in  years,  but  alert,  with  mild 
blue  or  gray  eyes,  and  good  presence  and  voice.  Soon  as  he  open'd 
his  mouth  I  ceas'd  to  pay  any  attention  to  church  or  audience,  or  pic 
tures  or  lights  and  shades ;  a  far  more  potent  charm  entirely  sway'd  me. 
In  the  course  of  the  sermon,  (there  was  no  sign  of  any  MS.,  or 
reading  from  notes,)  some  of  the  parts  would  be  in  the  highest  degree 
majestic  and  picturesque.  Colloquial  in  a  severe  sense,  it  often  lean'd 
to  Biblical  and  Oriental  forms.  Especially  were  all  allusions  to  ships 
and  the  ocean  and  sailors'  lives,  of  unrival'd  power  and  life-likeness. 
Sometimes  there  were  passages  of  fine  language  and  composition,  even 
from  the  purist's  point  of  view.  A  few  arguments,  and  of  the  best, 
but  always  brief  and  simple.  One  realized  what  grip  there  might  have 
been  in  such  words-of-mouth  talk  as  that  of  Socrates  and  Epictetus. 
In  the  main,  I  should  say,  of  any  of  these  discourses,  that  the  old 
Demosthenean  rule  and  requirement  of  "action,  action,  action,"  first 
in  its  inward  and  then  (very  moderate  and  restrained)  its  outward 
sense,  was  the  quality  that  had  leading  fulfilment. 

I  remember  I  felt  the  deepest  impression  from  the  old  man's 
prayers,  which  invariably  affected  me  to  tears.  Never,  on  similar  or 
any  other  occasions,  have  I  heard  such  impassion' d  pleading — such 
human-harassing  reproach  (like  Hamlet  to  his  mother,  in  the  closet)  — 
such  probing  to  the  very  depths  of  that  latent  conscience  and  remorse 
which  probably  lie  somewhere  in  the  background  of  every  life,  every 
soul.  For  when  Father  Taylor  preach' d  or  pray'd,  the  rhetoric  and 
art,  the  mere  words,  (which  usually  play  such  a  big  part)  seem'd 
altogether  to  disappear,  and  the  live  feeling  advanced  upon  you  and 
seiz'd  you  with  a  power  before  unknown.  Everybody  felt  this  mar 
vellous  and  awful  influence.  One  young  sailor,  a  Rhode  Islander, 
(who  came  every  Sunday,  and  I  got  acquainted  with,  and  talk'd  to 
once  or  twice  as  we  went  away,)  told  me,  "that  must  be  the  Holy 
Ghost  we  read  of  in  the  Testament." 

I  should  be  at  a  loss  to  make  any  comparison  with  other  preachers 
or  public  speakers.  When  a  child  I  had  heard  Elias  Hicks  —  and 
Father  Taylor  (though  so  different  in  personal  appearance,  for  Elias 


NOVEMBER   BOUGHS  387 

was  of  tall  and  most  shapely  form,  with  black  eyes  that  blazed  at 
times  like  meteors,)  always  reminded  me  of  him.  Both  had  the  same 
inner,  apparently  inexhaustible,  fund  of  latent  volcanic  passion  —  the 
same  tenderness,  blended  with  a  curious  remorseless  firmness,  as  of 
some  surgeon  operating  on  a  belov'd  patient.  Hearing  such  men 
sends  to  the  winds  all  the  books,  and  formulas,  and  polish'd  speaking, 
and  rules  of  oratory. 

Talking  of  oratory,  why  is  it  that  the  unsophisticated  practices  often 
strike  deeper  than  the  train' d  ones?  Why  do  our  experiences  perhaps 
of  some  local  country  exhorter  —  or  often  in  the  West  or  South  at 
political  meetings  —  bring  the  most  definite  results  ?  In  my  time  I 
have  heard  Webster,  Clay,  Edward  Everett,  Phillips,  and  such 
celebres  ;  yet  I  recall  the  minor  but  life-eloquence  of  men  like  John  P. 
Hale,  Cassius  Clay,  and  one  or  two  of  the  old  abolition  "fanatics" 
ahead  of  all  those  stereotyped  fames.  Is  not —  I  sometimes  question 

the  first,  last,  and  most   important  quality  of  all,  in  training  for  a 

"  finish' d  speaker,"  generally  unsought,  unreck'd  of,  both  by  teacher 
and  pupil  ?  Though  may-be  it  cannot  be  taught,  anyhow.  At  any 
rate,  we  need  -to  clearly  understand  the  distinction  between  oratory  and 
elocution.  Under  the  latter  art,  including  some  of  high  order,  there 
is  indeed  no  scarcity  in  the  United  States,  preachers,  lawyers,  actors, 
lecturers,  &c.  With  all,  there  seem  to  be  few  real  orators  —  almost 
none. 

I  repeat,  and  would  dwell   upon  it  (more   as  suggestion   than  mere 

fact) among  all  the  brilliant  lights  of  bar  or  stage   I  have  heard  in 

my  time  (for  years  in  New  York  and  other  cities  I  haunted  the  courts 
to  witness  notable  trials,  and  have  heard  all  the  famous  actors  and 
actresses  that  have  been  in  America  the  past  fifty  years)  though  I  recall 
marvellous  effects  from  one  or  other  of  them,  I  never  had  anything  in 
the  way  of  vocal  utterance  to  shake  me  through  and  through,  and 
become  fix'd,  with  its  accompaniments,  in  my  memory,  like  those 
prayers  and  sermons  —  like  Father  Taylor's  personal  electricity  and 
the  whole  scene  there  —  the  prone  ship  in  the  gale,  and  dashing 
wave  and  foam  for  background  —  in  the  little  old  sea-church  in  Boston, 
those  summer  Sundays  just  before  the  secession  war  broke  out. 


THE    SPANISH    ELEMENT 
IN  OUR  NATIONALITY 


[Our  friends  at  Santa  W,  New  Mexico,  have  just  finish'  d  their  long- 
drawn-out  aiuivauiy  of  the  333d  year  of  the  settlement  of  their  city  by 
theSpaaiA.  The  good,  gray  Walt  Whitman  was  asked  to  write  them  a 
poem  in  commemoration.  Instead  he  wrote  them  a  letter  as  follows  •  _ 
ess,  August  5,  1883.] 


C  AMD  EX,  NEW  JERSEY,  July  20,  1883. 
7V  Messrs.  Griffin,  Martinez,  Prince,  mmd  other  Gentlemen  at  Santa 

Fe: 

DEAR  SIRS  :  —  Yoor  kind  invitation  to  visit  you  and  deliver  a  poem 
'"'-'""  --"  -"'--'  ---  -z  $  =  -:=  Fe  hasreaA'd  »eiolal!e 

-  -i'-e  ::  ~:..-e.  "•::-  ;;n;e:e  regret.  But  I  wfflsavafcwwanij 
of*  hand. 

v>  £  A~e-::  =  -:  have  ;.  -;:  to  realty  lean  :_r  own  —  :e:e£er::5,  and 
sort  diem,  to  unify  diem.  They  will  be  found  ampler  than  has  been 
supposed,  and  in  widely  different  sources.  Thus  far,  impress*  d  by 
New  England  writers  and  schoolmasters,  we  tacitly  abandon  ourselves 
to  the  notion  that  our  United  States  have  been  fashion'd  from  the 
British  Islands  only,  and  essentially  form  a  second  England  only  _ 
•v";:~  M  =  *oy  great  mi-E-.e.  M—  .  ;.-  ieaiir.g  :-=::-  -  -  --"_:.-: 
national  personality,  and  some  of  the  bat  ones,  will  certainly  prove  to 
'-'*•'•-  '-'  I'  --'•"-  '-  -'  -  -  -.  Bridsl  rtock.  A«  ::  :s,  Ae  Br:::=h 

and  German,  valuable  as  they  are  in  the  concrete,  already  threaten 
excess.  Or  rather,  I  should  say,  they  have  certainly  reach*  d  that 
excess.  To-day,  something  outside  of  them,  and  to  counterbalance 
:-trr..  :;  :-;-;-  -  v  -teded. 

The  seething  •aterialistic  and  business  vortices  of  the  United  States, 
in  their  pmcaft  devouring  relations,  controlling  and  belittling  every 
thing  else,  are,  in  Myopiaiua,  bat  a  vast  and  indispensable  stage  in  the 

-  world's  development,  and  are  certainly  to  be  folio  w'd  by  some- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  3*9 

thing  entirely  different  —  at  least  by  immense  modiirarinns ^^SS|T 
ter,  literature,  a  society  WWthy  fc  TS'TJlS.1* 
throut*  a  •annnifay  of  noblest   spiritual,   heroic ^  and 
attributes  — not   one    of  which    at    F»°*    *•" 
tirely  different  from  the  past,  though  unerringly  founded  on  M,  m 

justify  it. 

To  that  composite  American  identity  o 

will  supply  some  of  the  most  nr-1 

historic  retrospect  —  grander  in 

ism,  courage,  decorum,  gravity  and  honor. 

Jll^I^l/jih^^  half  imw-head-and-blood 

;  half  Mysteries-of-Udolpho,  inherited  from  die  Engfis 

past  100  years.     It  is  time  to  reafize  —  fo 

Sere  will  not  be  found  any  more  cruelty,  tyranny,  supo 
;  in  the  reran*  of  past  Spanish  history  than  m  d 

of  AnjJo-Nonnan  history.     Nay,  I  dunk  there  wffl 

much. ) 

Then    another   point,  relating  t 
to  come,  I  will  here  touch  upon  at  a  Denture,     As  I 
or  Indian  population  —  the  Aztec  in  the  S     ",  i: 
the  North  and  West  — I  know  it  seems  t       t  11:- 
graf-a;:-.    dwindle    i  '  ; 

leave  only  a  reminiscence,  a  blank.     But 
that.     As  America,  from  its  many  &r-back  «^e»  ™ 
pHes,  develops,  adapts,  entwines,  fiidifully  idem 
to  see  it  cheerfuny  accepting  and  using  aJ 
lands  from  the  whole  outside  &Ax  —  and  then  rejecting 
distinctively  its  own  — the  autochthonic 

As  to  the  Spanish  stock  of  our  Southwest,  itis^«uu^ 
do  not  begin  to  appreciate  the  splendor  and  sterling  va- 
element.     Who  knows  but  that  dement,  like  die  coarse 
terranean  river,  (fipping  invisibly  for  a  hundred 
emerge  in  broadest  flow  and  pennanent  action  ? 

If  I  might  assume  to  do  so,  I  woe 
heartfelt  congratulations  of  your  American  Wlow-co 
You  have  more  friends  in  the  Northern  ^and  Atlanc 
suppose,  and  they  are  deeply  intei estrd  in  thcdevci 
Southwestern  interior,  and  in  what  your  festival  would 

attention. 

Very  respectfully,  &c.,  WALT 


WHAT  LURKS  BEHIND 

SHAKSPERE'S  HISTORICAL 
PLAYS 


WE  all  know  how  much  mytbus  there  is  in  the  Shakspere  question 
as  it  stands  to-day.  Beneath  a  few  foundations  of  proved  facts  are 
certainly  engulf'd  far  more  dim  and  elusive  ones,  of  deepest  impor 
tance  —  tantalizing  and  half  suspected  —  suggesting  explanations  that 
one  dare  not  put  in  plain  statement.  But  coming  at  once  to  the 
point,  the  English  historical  plays  are  to  me  not  only  the  most 
eminent  as  dramatic  performances  (my  maturest  judgment  confirming 
the  impressions  of  my  early  years,  that  the  distinctiveness  and  glory 
of  the  Poet  reside  not  in  his  vaunted  dramas  of  the  passions,  but 
those  founded  on  the  contests  of  English  dynasties,  and  the  French 
wars,)  but  form,  as  we  get  it  all,  the  chief  in  a  complexity  of  puzzles. 
Conceived  out  of  the  fullest  heat  and  pulse  of  European  feudalism  — 
personifying  in  unparallePd  ways  the  mediaeval  aristocracy,  its  tower 
ing  spirit  of  ruthless  and  gigantic  caste,  with  its  own  peculiar  air  and 
arrogance  (no  mere  imitation)  —  only  one  of  the  "wolfish  earls" 
so  plenteous  in  the  plays  themselves,  or  some  born  descendant  and 
knower,  might  seem  to  be  the  true  author  of  those  amazing  works  — 
works  in  some  respects  greater  than  anything  else  in  recorded 
literature. 

The  start  and  germ-stock  of  the  pieces  on  which  the  present  spec 
ulation  is  founded  are  undoubtedly  (with,  at  the  outset,  no  small 
amount  of  bungling  work)  in  "Henry  VI."  It  is  plain  to  me  that 
as  profound  and  forecasting  a  brain  and  pen  as  ever  appear* d  in  liter 
ature,  after  floundering  somewhat  in  the  first  part  of  that  trilogy  — 
or  perhaps  draughting  it  more  or  less  experimentally  or  by  accident 
—  afterward  developed  and  defined  his  plan  in  the  Second  and  Third 
Parts,  and  from  time  to  time,  thenceforward,  systematically  enlarged 


NOVEMBER  HOUGHS  391 

it  to  majestic  and  mature  proportions  in  "Richard  II,"  "Richard 
III,"  "King  John,"  "Henry  IV,"  "Henry  V,"  and  even  in 
"Macbeth,"  "Coriolanus"  and  "Lear."  For  it  is  impossible  to 
grasp  the  whole  cluster  of  those  plays,  however  wide  the  intervals 
and  different  circumstances  of  their  composition,  without  thinking  of 
them  as,  in  a  free  sense,  the  result  of  an  essentially  controling  plan. 
What  was  that  plan?  Or,  rather,  what  was  veil'd  behind  it?-- 
for  to  me  there  was  certainly  something  so  veil'd.  Even  the  episodes 
of  Cade,  Joan  of  Arc,  and  the  like  (which  sometimes  seem  to  me 
like  interpolations  allow' d,)  may  be  meant  to  foil  the  possible  sleuth, 
and  throw  any  too  'cute  pursuer  off  the  scent.  In  the  whole  matter 
I  should  specially  dwell  on,  and  make  much  of,  that  inexplicable 
element  of  every  highest  poetic  nature  which  causes  it  to  cover  up 
and  involve  its  real  purpose  and  meanings  in  folded  removes  and  far 
recesses.  Of  this  trait  —  hiding  the  nest  where  common  seekers 
may  never  find  it  —  the  Shaksperean  works  afford  the  most  numerous 
and  mark'd  illustrations  known  to  me.  I  would  even  call  that  trait 
the  leading  one  through  the  whole  of  those  works. 

All  the  foregoing  to  premise  a  brief  statement  of  how  and  where  I 
get  my  new  light  on  Shakspere.  Speaking  of  the  special  English  plays, 
my  friend  William  O'Connor  says: 

They  seem  simply  and  rudely  historical  in  their  motive,  as  aiming  to 
give  in  the  rough  a  tableau  of  warring  dynasties, —  and  carry  to  me  a  lurk 
ing  sense  of  being  in  aid  of  some  ulterior  design,  probably  well  enougli 
understood  in  that  age,  which  perhaps  time  and  criticism  will  reveal.  .  .  . 
Their  atmosphere  is  one  of  barbarous  and  tumultuous  gloom, —  they  do  not 
make  us  love  the  times  they  limn,  .  .  .  and  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that 
the  greatest  of  the  Elizabethan  men  could  have  sought  to  indoctrinate  the 
age  with  the  love  of  feudalism  which  his  own  drama  in  its  entirety,  if  the 
view  taken  of  it  herein  he  true,  certainly  and  subtly  saps  and  mines. 

Reading  the  just-specified  play  in  the  light  of  Mr.  O'Connor's 
suggestion,  I  defy  any  one  to  escape  such  new  and  deep  utterance- 
meanings,  like  magic  ink,  warm'd  by  the  fire,  and  previously  invisible. 
Will  it  not  indeed  be  strange  if  the  author  of  "  Othello  "  and  "  Ham 
let  "  is  destin'd  to  live  in  America,  in  a  generation  or  two,  less  as  the 
cunning  draughtsman  of  the  passions,  and  more  as  putting  on  record 
the  first  full  expose  —  and  by  far  the  most  vivid  one,  immeasurably 
ahead  of  doctrinaires  and  economists — of  the  political  theory  and 
results,  or  the  reason-why  and  necessity  for  them  which  America  has 
come  on  earth  to  abnegate  and  replace? 

The  summary  of  my  suggestion  would  be,  therefore,  that  while  the 
more  the  rich  and  tangled  jungle  of  the  Shaksperean  area  is  travers'd 
and  studied,  and  the  more  baffled  and  mix'd,  as  so  far  appears, 
becomes  the  exploring  student  (who  at  last  surmises  everything,  and 


392  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

remains  certain  of  nothing,)  it  is  possible  a  future  age  of  criticism, 
diving  deeper,  mapping  the  land  and  lines  freer,  completer  than 
hitherto,  may  discover  in  the  plays  named  the  scientific  (Baconian?) 
inauguration  of  modern  democracy  —  furnishing  realistic  and  first-class 
artistic  portraitures  of  the  mediaeval  world,  the  feudal  personalities,  insti 
tutes,  in  their  morbid  accumulations,  deposits,  upon  politics  and 
sociology,  — may  penetrate  to  that  hard-pan,  far  down  and  back  of 
the  ostent  of  to-day,  on  which  (and  on  which  only)  the  progressism 
of  the  last  two  centuries  has  built  this  Democracy  which  now  holds 
secure  lodgment  over  the  whole  civilized  world. 

Whether  such  was  the  unconscious,  or  (as  I  think  likely)  the  more 
or  less  conscious,  purpose  of  him  who  fashion*  d  those  marvellous 
architectonics,  is  a  secondary  question. 


A    THOUGHT    ON    SHAK- 
SPERE 


THE  most  distinctive  poems— the  most  permanently  rooted  and 
with  heartiest  reason  for  being  — the  copious  cycle  of  Arthurian 
legends,  or  the  almost  equally  copious  Charlemagne  cycle,  or 
poems  of  the  Cid,  or  Scandinavian  Eddas,  or  Nibelungen,  or  Chaucer, 
or  Spenser,  or  bona  fide  Ossian,  or  Inferno  —  probably  had  their  rise  in 
the  great  historic  perturbations,  which  they  came  in  to  sum  up  and 
confirm,  indirectly  embodying  results  to  date.  Then  however  precious 
to  "culture,"  the  grandest  of  those  poems,  it  may  be  said,  preserve 
and  typify  results  offensive  to  the  modern  spirit,  and  long  past  away. 
To  state  it  briefly,  and  taking  the  strongest  examples,  in  Homer  lives 
the  ruthless  military  prowess  of  Greece,  and  of  its  special  god-descende< 
dynastic  houses  ;  in  Shakspere  the  dragon-rancors  and  stormy  feudal 
splendor  of  mediaeval  caste. 

Poetry,  largely  consider1  d,  is  an  evolution,  sending  out  improved 
and  ever-expanded  types  — in  one  sense,  the  past,  even  the  best  of  it, 
necessarily  giving  place,  and  dying  out.  For  our  existing  world,  the 
bases  on  which  all  the  grand  old  poems  were  built  have  become 
vacuums— and  even  those  of  many  comparatively  modern  ones  are 
broken  and  half-gone.  For  us  to-day,  not  their  own  intrinsic  value, 
vast  as  that  is,  backs  and  maintains  those  poems  —  but  a  mountain- 
high  growth  of  associations,  the  layers  of  successive  ages.  Everywhere 
—  their  own  lands  included—  (is  there  not  something  terrible  in  the 
tenacity  with  which  the  one  book  out  of  millions  holds  its  grip  ? 
the  Homeric  and  Virgilian  works,  the  interminable  ballad-romances  or 
the  middle  ages,  the  utterances  of  Dante,  Spenser,  and  others,  are 
upheld  by  their  cumulus-entrenchment  in  scholarship,  and  as  precious, 
always  welcome,  unspeakably  valuable  reminiscences. 

Even  the  one  who  at  present  reigns  unquestion'd —  of  Shaksper 
for  all  he  stands  for  so  much  in  modern  literature,  he  stands  entirely 
for  the  mighty  esthetic  sceptres  of  the  past,  not  for  the  spiritual  and 


394  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

democratic,  the  sceptres  of  the  future.  The  inward  and  outward 
characteristics  of  Shakspere  are  his  vast  and  rich  variety  of  persons 
and  themes,  with  his  wondrous  delineation  of  each  and  all  —  not  only 
limitless  funds  of  verbal  and  pictorial  resource,  but  great  excess,  super- 
foetation  —  mannerism,  like  a  fine,  aristocratic  perfume,  holding  a 
touch  of  musk  (Euphues,  his  mark)  —  with  boundless  sumptuousness 
and  adornment,  real  velvet  and  gems,  not  shoddy  nor  paste  —  but  a 
good  deal  of  bombast  and  fustian  —  (certainly  some  terrific  mouthing 
in  Shakspere !) 

Superb  and  inimitable  as  all  is,  it  is  mostly  an  objective  and  physio 
logical  kind  of  power  and  beauty  the  soul  finds  in  Shakspere  —  a  style 
supremely  grand  of  the  sort,  but  in  my  opinion  stopping  short  of  the 
grandest  sort,  at  any  rate  for  fulfilling  and  satisfying  modern  and  sci 
entific  and  democratic  American  purposes.  Think,  not  of  growths  as 
forests  primeval,  or  Yellowstone  geysers,  or  Colorado  ravines,  but  of 
costly  marble  palaces,  and  palace  rooms,  and  the  noblest  fixings  and 
furniture,  and  noble  owners  and  occupants  to  correspond  —  think  of 
carefully  built  gardens  from  the  beautiful  but  sophisticated  gardening 
art  at  its  best,  with  walks  and  bowers  and  artificial  lakes,  and  appro 
priate  statue-groups  and  the  finest  cultivated  roses  and  lilies  and  japon- 
icas  in  plenty  —  and  you  have  the  tally  of  Shakspere.  The  low 
characters,  mechanics,  even  the  loyal  henchmen  —  all  in  themselves 
nothing  —  serve  as  capital  foils  to  the  aristocracy.  The  comedies 
(exquisite  as  they  certainly  are)  bringing  in  admirably  portray' d 
common  characters,  have  the  unmistakable  hue  of  plays,  portraits, 
made  for  the  divertisement  only  of  the  elite  of  the  castle,  and  from 
its  point  of  view.  The  comedies  are  altogether  non-acceptable  to 
America  and  Democracy. 

But  to  the  deepest  soul,  it  seems  a  shame  to  pick  and  choose  from 
the  riches  Shakspere  has  left  us  —  to  criticise  his  infinitely  royal,  multi 
form  quality  —  to  gauge,  with  optic  glasses,  the  dazzle  of  his  sun-like 
beams. 

The  best  poetic  utterance,  after  all,  can  merely  hint,  or  remind, 
often  very  indirectly,  or  at  distant  removes.  Aught  of  real  perfection, 
or  the  solution  of  any  deep  problem,  or  any  completed  statement  of 
the  moral,  the  true,  the  beautiful,  eludes  the  greatest,  deftest  poet  — 
flies  away  like  an  always  uncaught  bird. 


ROBERT  BURNS  AS  POET 
AND    PERSON 


WHAT  the  future  will  decide  about  Robert  Burns  and  his  works  — 
what  place  will  be  assign' d  them  on  that  great  roster  of  geniuses  and 
genius  which  can  only  be  finish' d  by  the  slow  but  sure  balancing  of 
the  centuries  with  their  ample  average  —  I  of  course  cannot  tell.  But 
as  we  know  him,  from  his  recorded  utterances,  and  after  nearly  one 
century,  and  its  diligence  of  collections,  songs,  letters,  anecdotes, 
presenting  the  figure  of  the  canny  Scotchman  in  a  fullness  and  detail 
wonderfully  complete,  and  the  lines  mainly  by  his  own  hand,  he  forms 
to-day,  in  some  respects,  the  most  interesting  personality  among 
singers.  Then  there  are  many  things  in  Burns' s  poems  and  char 
acter  that  specially  endear  him  to  America.  He  was  essentially  a 

Republican would    have   been    at    home   in   the   Western    United 

States,  and  probably  become  eminent  there.  He  was  an  average 
sample  of  the  good-natured,  warm-blooded,  proud-spirited,  amative, 
alimentive,  convivial,  young  and  early-middle-aged  man  of  the  decent- 
born  middle  classes  everywhere  and  any  how.  Without  the  race  of 
which  he  is  a  distinct  specimen,  (and  perhaps  his  poems)  America 
and  her  powerful  Democracy  could  not  exist  to-day  —  could  not  pro 
ject  with  unparallel'd  historic  sway  into  the  future. 

Perhaps  the  peculiar  coloring  of  the  era  of  Burns  needs  always  first 
to  be  consider'd.  It  included  the  times  of  the  '76-' 8 3  Revolution  in 
America,  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  an  unparallel'd  chaos  devel 
opment  in  Europe  and  elsewhere.  In  every  department,  shining  and 
strange  names,  like  stars,  some  rising,  some  in  meridian,  some  declin 
ing  Voltaire,  Franklin,  Washington,  Kant,  Goethe,  Fulton,  Napo 
leon,  mark  the  era.  And  while  so  much,  and  of  grandest  moment,  fit 
for  the  trumpet  of  the  world's  fame,  was  being  transacted  —  that  little 
tragi-comedy  of  R.  B.'s  life  and  death  was  going  on  in  a  country  by- 
place  in  Scotland! 

Burns' s  correspondence,  generally  collected  and  publish' d  since  his 


396  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

death,  gives  wonderful  glints  into  both  the  amiable  and  weak  (and 
worse  than  weak)  parts  of  his  portraiture,  habits,  good  and  bad  luck, 
ambition  and  associations.  His  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Lehose,  (Clarinda,)  Mr.  Thompson,  Dr.  Moore,  Robert  Muir,  Mr. 
Cunningham,  Miss  Margaret  Chalmers,  Peter  Hill,  Richard  Brown, 
Mrs.  Riddel,  Robert  Ainslie,  and  Robert  Graham,  afford  valuable 
lights  and  shades  to  the  outline,  and  with  numerous  others,  help  to  a 
touch  here,  and  fill-in  there,  of  poet  and  poems.  There  are  suspi 
cions,  it  is  true,  of  "the  Genteel  Letter- Writer,"  with  scraps  and 
words  from  "the  Manual  of  French  Quotations,"  and,  in  the  love- 
letters,  some  hollow  mouthings.  Yet  we  wouldn't  on  any  account 
lack  the  letters.  A  full  and  true  portrait  is  always  what  is  wanted  ; 
veracity  at  every  hazard.  Besides,  do  we  not  all  see  by  this  time  that 
the  story  of  Burns,  even  for  its  own  sake,  requires  the  record  of  the 
whole  and  several,  with  nothing  left  out  ?  Completely  and  every 
point  minutely  told  out  its  fullest,  explains  and  justifies  itself —  (as 
perhaps  almost  any  life  does.)  He  is  very  close  to  the  earth.  He 
pick'd  up  his  best  words  and  tunes  directly  from  the  Scotch  home- 
singers,  but  tells  Thompson  they  would  not  please  his,  T.'s,  "learn'd 
lugs,"  adding,  "I  call  them  simple  —  you  would  pronounce  them 
silly."  Yes,  indeed  ;  the  idiom  was  undoubtedly  his  happiest  hit. 
Yet  Dr.  Moore,  in  1789,  writes  to  Burns,  "  If  I  were  to  offer  an 
opinion,  it  would  be  that  in  your  future  productions  you  should  aban 
don  the  Scotch  stanza  and  dialect,  and  adopt  the  measure  and  language 
of  modern  English  poetry"  ! 

As  the  izSth  birth-anniversary  of  the  poet  draws  on,  (January, 
1887,)  with  its  increasing  club-suppers,  vehement  celebrations,  letters, 
speeches,  and  so  on — (mostly,  as  William  O'Connor  says,  from 
people  who  would  not  have  noticed  R.  B.  at  all  during  his  actual  life, 
nor  kept  his  company,  or  read  his  verses,  on  any  account)  —  it  may 
be  opportune  to  print  some  leisurely-jotted  notes  I  find  in  my  budget. 
I  take  my  observation  of  the  Scottish  bard  by  considering  him  as  an 
individual  amid  the  crowded  clusters,  galaxies,  of  the  old  world  — 
and  fairly  inquiring  and  suggesting  what  out  of  these  myriads  he  too 
may  be  to  the  Western  Republic.  In  the  first  place  no  poet  on 
record  so  fully  bequeaths  his  own  personal  magnetism,*  nor  illustrates 

*  Probably  no  man  that  ever  lived  —  a  friend  has  made  the  statement  — 
was  so  fondly  loved,  both  by  men  and  women,  as  Robert  Burns.  The 
reason  is  not  hard  to  find  :  he  had  a  real  heart  of  flesh  and  blood  beating  in 
his  bosom  j  you  could  almost  hear  it  throb.  "  Some  one  said,  that  if  you 
had  shaken  hands  with  him  his  hand  would  have  burnt  yours.  The  gods, 
indeed,  made  him  poetical,  but  Nature  had  a  hand  in  him  first.  His  heart 
was  in  the  right  place  ;  he  did  not  pile  up  cantos  of  poetic  diction  ;  he 
pluck' d  the  mountain  daisy  under  his  feet  5  he  wrote  of  field-mouse  hurry- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  397 

more  pointedly  how  one's  verses,  by  time  and  reading,  can  so  curi 
ously  fuse  with  the  versifier's  own  life  and  death,  and  give  final  light 
and  shade  to  all. 

I  would  say  a  large  part  of  the  fascination  of  Burns' s  homely, 
simple  dialect-melodies  is  due,  for  all  current  and  future  readers,  to 
the  poet's  personal  "errors,"  the  general  bleakness  of  his  lot,  his 
ingrain' d  pensiveness,  his  brief  dash  into  dazzling,  tantalizing,  evan 
escent  sunshine  —  finally  culminating  in  those  last  years  of  his  life,  his 
being  taboo' d  and  in  debt,  sick  and  sore,  yaw'd  as  by  contending 
gales,  deeply  dissatisfied  with  everything,  most  of  all  with  himself  — 
high-spirited  too  —  (no  man  ever  really  higher-spirited  than  Robert 
Burns.)  I  think  it  a  perfectly  legitimate  part  too.  At  any  rate  it  has 
come  to  be  an  impalpable  aroma  through  which  only  both  the  songs 
and  their  singer  must  henceforth  be  read  and  absorb* d.  Through 
that  view-medium  of  misfortune  —  of  a  noble  spirit  in  low  environ 
ments,  and  of  a  squalid  and  premature  death  —  we  view  the  un 
doubted  facts,  (giving,  as  we  read  them  now,  a  sad  kind  of  pungency,) 
that  Burns' s  were,  before  all  else,  the  lyrics  of  illicit  loves  and  carousing 
intoxication.  Perhaps  even  it  is  this  strange,  impalpable  post-mortem 
comment  and  influence  referr'd  to,  that  gives  them  their  contrast, 
attraction,  making  the  zest  of  their  author's  after  fame.  If  he  had 
lived  steady,  fat,  moral,  comfortable,  well-to-do  years,  on  his  own 
grade,  (let  alone,  what  of  course  was  out  of  the  question,  the  ease 
and  velvet  and  rosewood  and  copious  royalties  of  Tennyson  or  Victor 
Hugo  or  Longfellow,)  and  died  well-ripen' d  and  respectable,  where 
could  have  come  in  that  burst  of  passionate  sobbing  and  remorse 
which  welPd  forth  instantly  and  generally  in  Scotland,  and  soon 
follow' d  everywhere  among  English-speaking  races,  on  the  announce 
ment  of  his  death  ?  and  which,  with  no  sign  of  stopping,  only  regu 
lated  and  vein'd  with  fitting  appreciation,  flows  deeply,  widely  yet  ? 

Dear  Rob !  manly,  witty,  fond,  friendly,  full  of  weak  spots  as 
well  as  strong  ones — essential  type  of  so  many  thousands  —  perhaps 
the  average,  as  just  said,  of  the  decent-born  young  men  and  the  early 
mid-aged,  not  only  of  the  British  Isles,  but  America,  too,  North  and 
South,  just  the  same.  I  think,  indeed,  one  best  part  of  Burns  is  the 
unquestionable  proof  he  presents  of  the  perennial  existence  among  the 

ing  from  its  ruin'd  dwelling.  He  held  the  plough  or  the  pen  with  the  same 
firm,  manly  grasp.  And  he  was  loved.  The  simple  roll  of  the  women 
who  gave  him  their  affection  and  their  sympathy  would  make  a  long  manu 
script  ;  and  most  of  these  were  of  such  noble  worth  that,  as  Robert  Cham 
bers  says,  '  their  character  may  stand  as  a  testimony  in  favor  of  that  of 
Burns.'  "  [As  I  understand,  the  foregoing  is  from  an  extremely  rare 
book  publish' d  by  M'Kie,  in  Kilmarnock.  I  find  the  whole  beautiful 
paragraph  in  a  capital  paper  on  Burns,  by  Amelia  Barr.] 


398  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

laboring  classes,  especially  farmers,  of  the  finest  latent  poetic  elements 
in   their  blood.      (How  clear  it  is  to  me  that  the  common  soil  has 
always  been,  and  is  now,  thickly  strewn  with  just  such  gems.)      He 
is    well -called    the    Ploughman.      "Holding    the    plough,"    said    his 
brother   Gilbert,  "  was  the  favorite  situation  with  Robert  for  poetic 
compositions  ;    and  some  of  his  best  verses  were  produced  while  he 
was  at  that  exercise."      "I  must  return  to  my  humble  station,  and 
woo  my  rustic  muse  in  my  wonted  way,  at  the  plough-tail."      1787, 
to  the  Earl  of  Buchan.     He  has  no  high  ideal  of  the  poet  or  the  poet's 
office  ;  indeed  quite  a  low  and  contracted  notion  of  both  : 
11  Fortune  !  if  them' 11  but  gie  me  still 
Hale  breaks,  a  scone,  and  whiskey  gill, 
An'  rowth  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 
Tak'  a'  the  rest." 

See  also  his  rhym'd  letters  to  Robert  Graham  invoking  patronage ; 
"one  stronghold,"  Lord  Glencairn,  being  dead,  now  these  appeals  to 
"  Fintra,  my  other  stay,"  (with  in  one  letter  a  copious  shower  of 
vituperation  generally.)  In  his  collected  poems  there  is  no  particular 
unity,  nothing  that  can  be  called  a  leading  theory,  no  unmistakable 
spine  or  skeleton.  Perhaps,  indeed,  their  very  desultoriness  is  the 
charm  of  his  songs:  "I  take  up  one  or  another,"  he  says  in  a  letter 
to  Thompson,  "just  as  the  bee  of  the  moment  buzzes  in  my  bonnet- 
lug." 

Consonantly  with  the  customs  of  the  time  —  yet  markedly  incon 
sistent  in  spirit  with  Burns' s  own  case,  (and  not  a  little  painful  as  it 
remains  on  record,  as  depicting  some  features  of  the  bard  himself,) 
the  relation  called  patronage  existed  between  the  nobility  and  gentry 
on  one  side,  and  literary  people  on  the  other,  and  gives  one  of  the 
strongest  side-lights  to  the  general  coloring  of  poems  and  poets.  It 
crops  out  a  good  deal  in  Burns' s  Letters,  and  even  necessitated  a 
certain  flunkeyism  on  occasions,  through  life.  It  probably,  with  its 
requirements,  (while  it  help'd  in  money  and  countenance)  did  as 
much  as  any  one  cause  in  making  that  life  a  chafed  and  unhappy  one, 
ended  by  a  premature  and  miserable  death. 

Yes,  there  is  something  about  Burns  peculiarly  acceptable  to  the 
concrete,  human  points  of  view.  He  poetizes  work-a-day  agricul 
tural  labor  and  life,  (whose  spirit  and  sympathies,  as  well  as  practical 
ities,  are  much  the  same  everywhere,)  and  treats  fresh,  often  coarse, 
natural  occurrences,  loves,  persons,  not  like  many  new  and  some  old 
poets  in  a  genteel  style  of  gilt  and  china,  or  at  second  or  third  re 
moves,  but  in  their  own  born  atmosphere,  laughter,  sweat,  unction. 
Perhaps  no  one  ever  sang  "lads  and  lasses" — that  universal  race, 
mainly  the  same,  too,  all  ages,  all  lands  —  down  on  their  own  plane,  as 
he  has.  He  exhibits  no  philosophy  worth  mentioning ;  his  morality 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  399 

is  hardly  more  than  parrot-talk  —  not  bad  or  deficient,  but  cheap, 
shopworn,  the  platitudes  of  old  aunts  and  uncles  to  the  youngsters  (be 
good  boys  and  keep  your  noses  clean.)  Only  when  he  gets  at  Poosie 
Nansie's,  celebrating  the  "barley  bree,"  or  among  tramps,  or  demo 
cratic  bouts  and  drinking  generally, 

("Freedom  and  whiskey  gang  thegither.") 

we  have,  in  his  own  unmistakable  color  and  warmth,  those  interiors 
of  rake-helly  life  and  tavern  fun  —  the  cantabile  of  jolly  beggars  in 
highest  jinks — lights  and  groupings  of  rank  glee  and  brawny  amo 
rousness,  outvying  the  best  painted  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school,  or 
any  school. 

By  America  and  her  democracy  such  a  poet,  I  cannot  too  often  repeat, 
must  be  kept  in  loving  remembrance ;  but  it  is  best  that  discriminations 
be  made.  His  admirers  (as  at  those  anniversary  suppers,  over  the 
"hot  Scotch*')  will  not  accept  for  their  favorite  anything  less  than 
the  highest  rank,  alongside  of  Homer,  Shakspere,  etc.  Such,  in 
candor,  are  not  the  true  friends  of  the  Ayrshire  bard,  who  really  needs 
a  different  place  quite  by  himself.  The  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey  ex 
press  courage,  craft,  full-grown  heroism  in  situations  of  danger,  the 
sense  of  command  and  leadership,  emulation,  the  last  and  fullest 
evolution  of  self-poise  as  in  kings,  and  god-like  even  while  animal 
appetites.  The  Shaksperean  compositions,  on  vertebers  and  frame 
work  of  the  primary  passions,  portray  (essentially  the  same  as 
Homer's,)  the  spirit  and  letter  of  the  feudal  world,  the  Norman  lord, 
ambitious  and  arrogant,  taller  and  nobler  than  common  men — with 
much  underplay  and  gusts  of  heat  and  cold,  volcanoes  and  stormy  seas. 
Burns  (and  some  will  say  to  his  credit)  attempts  none  of  these  themes. 
He  poetizes  the  humor,  riotous  blood,  sulks,  amorous  torments,  fond 
ness  for  the  tavern  and  for  cheap  objective  nature,  with  disgust  at 
the  grim  and  narrow  ecclesiasticism  of  his  time  and  land,  of  a  young 
farmer  on  a  bleak  and  hired  farm  in  Scotland,  through  the  years 
and  under  the  circumstances  of  the  British  politics  of  that  time, 
and  of  his  short  personal  career  as  author,  from  1783  to  1796.  He 
is  intuitive  and  affectionate,  and  just  emerged  or  emerging  from  the 
shackles  of  the  kirk,  from  poverty,  ignorance,  and  from  his  own  rank 
appetites  —  (out  of  which  latter,  however,  he  never  extricated  him 
self.)  It  is  to  be  said  that  amid  not  a  little  smoke  and  gas  in  his 
poems,  there  is  in  almost  every  piece  a  spark  of  fire,  and  now  and  then 
the  real  afflatus.  He  has  been  applauded  as  democratic,  and  with 
some  warrant;  while  Shakspere,  and  with  the  greatest  warrant,  has 
been  called  monarchical  or  aristocratic  (which  he  certainly  is.)  But 
the  splendid  personalizations  of  Shakspere,  formulated  on  the  largest, 
freest,  most  heroic,  most  artistic  mould,  are  to  me  far  dearer  as  lessons, 
27 


400  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  more  precious  even  as  models  for  Democracy,  than  the  humdrum 
samples  Burns  presents.  The  motives  of  some  of  his  effusions  are 
certainly  discreditable  personally  —  one  or  two  of  them  markedly  so. 
He  has,  moreover,  little  or  no  spirituality.  This  last  is  his  mortal  flaw 
and  defect,  tried  by  highest  standards.  The  ideal  he  never  reach*  d 
(and  yet  I  think  he  leads  the  way  to  it.)  He  gives  melodies,  and 
now  and  then  the  simplest  and  sweetest  ones;  but  harmonies,  com 
plications,  oratorios  in  words,  never.  (I  do  not  speak  this  in  any 
deprecatory  sense.  Blessed  be  the  memory  of  the  warm-hearted 
Scotchman  for  what  he  has  left  us,  just  as  it  is!)  He  likewise  did 
not  know  himself,  in  more  ways  than  one.  Though  so  really  fret 
and  independent,  he  prided  himself  in  his  songs  on  being  a  reactionist 
and  a  Jacobite — on  persistent  sentimental  adherency  to  the  cause  of 
the  Stuarts  —  the  weakest,  thinnest,  most  faithless,  brainless  dynasty 
that  ever  held  a  throne. 

Thus,  while  Burns  is  not  at  all  great  for  New  World  study,  in  the 
sense  that  Isaiah  and  Eschylus  and  the  book  of  Job  are  unquestionably 
great  —  is  not  to  be  mentioned  with  Shakspere — hardly  even  with 
current  Tennyson  or  our  Emerson  —  he  has  a  nestling  niche  of  his 
own,  all  fragrant,  fond,  and  quaint  and  homely  —  a  lodge  built  near 
but  outside  the  mighty  temple  of  the  gods  of  song  and  art  —  those 
universal  strivers,  through  their  works  of  harmony  and  melody  and 
power,  to  ever  show  or  intimate  man's  crowning,  last,  victorious  fusion 
in  himself  of  Real  and  Ideal.  Precious,  too  —  fit  and  precious  beyond 
all  singers,  high  or  low  —  will  Burns  ever  be  to  the  native  Scotch, 
especially  to  the  working-classes  of  North  Britain ;  so  intensely  one  of 
them,  and  so  racy  of  the  soil,  sights,  and  local  customs.  He  often 
apostrophizes  Scotland,  and  is,  or  would  be,  enthusiastically  patriotic. 
His  country  has  lately  commemorated  him  in  a  statue.*  His  aim  is 
declaredly  to  be  'a  Rustic  Bard.'  His  poems  were  all  written  in 
youth  or  young  manhood,  (he  was  little  more  than  a  young  man  when 

*The  Dumfries  statue  of  Robert  Burns  was  successfully  unveil' d  April 
1 88 1  by  Lord  Rosebery,  the  occasion  having  been  made  national  in  its 
character.  Before  the  ceremony,  a  large  procession  paraded  the  streets  of 
the  town,  all  the  trades  and  societies  of  that  part  of  Scotland  being  repre 
sented,  at  the  head  of  which  went  dairymen  and  ploughmen,  the  former 
driving  their  carts  and  being  accompanied  by  their  maids.  The  statue  is 
of  Sicilian  marble.  It  rests  on  a  pedestal  of  gray  stone  five  feet  high. 
The  poet  is  represented  as  sitting  easily  on  an  old  tree  root,  holding  in  his 
left  hand  a  cluster  of  daisies.  His  face  is  turn'd  toward  the  right  shoulder, 
and  the  eyes  gaze  into  the  distance.  Near  by  lie  a  collie  dog,  a  broad 
bonnet  half  covering  a  well-thumb' d  song-book,  and  a  rustic  flageolet. 
The  costume  is  taken  from  the  Nasmyth  portrait,  which  has  been  follow' d 
for  the  features  of  the  face. 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  401 

he  died.)  His  collected  works  in  giving  everything,  are  nearly  one 
half  first  drafts.  His  brightest  hit  is  his  use  of  the  Scotch  patois,  so 
full  of  terms  flavor' d  like  wild  fruits  or  berries.  Then  I  should  make 
an  allowance  to  Burns  which  cannot  be  made  for  any  other  poet. 
Curiously  even  the  frequent  crudeness,  haste,  deficiencies,  (flatness  and 
puerilities  by  no  means  absent)  prove  upon  the  whole  not  out  of  keep- 
~ng  in  any  comprehensive  collection  of  his  works,  heroically  printed, 
''following  copy,"  every  piece,  every  line  according  to  originals. 
Other  poets  might  tremble  for  such  boldness,  such  rawness.  In  "this 
odd-kind  chiel  "  such  points  hardly  mar  the  rest.  Not  only  are  they 
in  consonance  with  the  underlying  spirit  of  the  pieces,  but  complete 
the  full  abandon  and  veracity  of  the  farm-fields  and  the  home-brew' d 
flavor  of  the  Scotch  vernacular.  (Is  there  not  often  something  in  the 
very  neglect,  unfinish,  careless  nudity,  slovenly  hiatus,  coming  from 
intrinsic  genius,  and  not  "put  on,"  that  secretly  pleases  the  soul  more 
than  the  wrought  and  re- wrought  polish  of  the  most  perfect  verse?) 
Mark  the  native  spice  and  untranslatable  twang  in  the  very  names  of 
his  songs — "  O  for  ane  and  twenty,  Tarn, ""John  Barleycorn," 
"Last  May  a  braw  Wooer,"  "  Rattlin  roarin  Willie,"  "O  wert 
thou  in  the  cauld,  cauld  blast,"  "  Gude  e'en  to  you,  Kimmer," 
"  Merry  hae  I  been  teething  a  Heckle,"  "O  lay  thy  loof  in  mine, 
lass,"  and  others. 

The  longer  and  more  elaborated  poems  of  Burns  are  just  such  as 
would  please  a  natural  but  homely  taste,  and  cute  but  average  intellect, 
and  are  inimitable  in  their  way.  The  "  Twa  Dogs,"  (one  of  the 
best)  with  the  conversation  between  Cesar  and  Luath,  the  "Brigs  of 
Ayr,"  "the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  "Tarn  O'Shanter"  —all 
will  be  long  read  and  re-read  and  admired,  and  ever  deserve  to  be. 
With  nothing  profound  in  any  of  them,  what  there  is  of  moral  and 
plot  has  an  inimitably  fresh  and  racy  flavor.  If  it  came  to  question, 
Literature  could  well  afford  to  send  adrift  many  a  pretensive  poem, 
and  even  book  of  poems,  before  it  could  spare  these  compositions. 

Never  indeed  was  there  truer  utterance  in  a  certain  range  of  idiosyn 
crasy  than  by  this  poet.  Hardly  a  piece  of  his,  large  or  small,  but 
has  "snap  "  and  raciness.  He  puts  in  cantering  rhyme  (often  dog 
gerel)  much  cutting  irony  and  idiomatic  ear-cuffing  of  the  kirk-deacons  — 
drily  good-natured  addresses  to  his  cronies,  (he  certainly  would  not 
stop  us  if  he  were  here  this  moment,  from  classing  that  "  to  the  De'il" 
among  them)  —  "to  Mailie  and  her  Lambs,"  "to  auld  Mare 
Maggie,"  "to  a  Mouse," 

"Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie  :  " 

"to  a  Mountain  Daisy,"    "to  a   Haggis,"    "to  a  Louse,"    "to  the 
Toothache,"  Sec. —  and  occasionally  to  his  brother  bards  and  lady  or 


402  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

gentleman  patrons,  often  with  strokes  of  tenderest  sensibility,  idio- 
pathic  humor,  and  genuine  poetic  imagination  —  still  oftener  with 
shrewd,  original,  sheeny,  steel-flashes  of  wit,  home-spun  sense,  or 
lance-blade  puncturing.  Then,  strangely,  the  basis  of  Burns*  s  char 
acter,  with  all  its  fun  and  manliness,  was  hypochondria,  the  blues, 
palpable  enough  in  "Despondency,"  "Man  was  made  to  Mourn," 
"Address  to  Ruin,"  a  "Bard's  Epitaph,"  &c.  From  such  deep- 
down  elements  sprout  up,  in  very  contrast  and  paradox,  those  riant 
utterances  of  which  a  superficial  reading  will  not  detect  the  hidden 
foundation.  Yet  nothing  is  clearer  to  me  than  the  black  and  desperate 
background  behind  those  pieces — as  I  shall  now  specify  them.  I 
find  his  most  characteristic,  Nature*  s  masterly  touch  and  luxuriant  life- 
blood,  color  and  heat,  not  in  "Tarn  O'Shanter,"  "the  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night,"  "Scots  wha  hae,"  "Highland  Mary,"  "the 
Twa  Dogs,"  and  the  like,  but  in  "the  Jolly  Beggars,"  "  Rigs  of 
Barley,"  "Scotch  Drink,"  "  the  Epistle  to  John  Rankine,"  "Holy 
Willie's  Prayer,"  and  in  "Halloween,"  (to  say  nothing  of  a  certain 
cluster,  known  still  to  a  small  inner  circle  in  Scotland,  but,  for  good 
reasons,  not  published  anywhere.)  In  these  compositions,  especially 
the  first,  there  is  much  indelicacy  (some  editions  flatly  leave  it  out,) 
but  the  composer  reigns  alone,  with  handling  free  and  broad  and  true, 
and  is  an  artist.  You  may  see  and  feel  the  man  indirectly  in  his  other 
verses,  all  of  them,  with  more  or  less  life-likeness  —  but  these  I  have 
named  last  call  out  pronouncedly  in  his  own  voice, 

"I,  Rob,  am  here." 

Finally,  in  any  summing-up  of  Burns,  though  so  much  is  to  be 
said  in  the  way  of  fault-finding,  drawing  black  marks,  and  doubtless 
severe  literary  criticism — (in  the  present  outpouring  I  have  "kept 
myself  in,"  rather  than  allow' d  any  free  flow)  —  after  full  retrospect 
of  his  works  and  life,  the  aforesaid  "odd-kind  chiel  "  remains  to  my 
heart  and  brain  as  almost  the  tenderest,  manliest,  and  (even  if  contra 
dictory)  dearest  flesh-and-blood  figure  in  all  the  streams  and  clusters 
of  by-gone  poets. 


A  WORD  ABOUT  TENNY- 
[  SON 


BEAUTIFUL  as  the  song  was,  the  original  "Locksley  Hall"  of  half  a 
century  ago  was  essentially  morbid,  heart-broken,  finding  fault  with 
everything,  especially  the  fact  of  money's  being  made  (as  it  ever  must 
be,  and  perhaps  should  be)  the  paramount  matter  in  worldly  affairs  ; 

Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 
First,  a  father,  having  fallen  in  battle,  his  child  (the  singer) 
Was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Of  course  love  ensues.  The  woman  in  the  chant  or  monologue  proves 
a  false  one  ;  and  as  far  as  appears  the  ideal  of  woman,  in  the  poet's 
reflections,  is  a  false  one  —  at  any  rate  for  America.  Woman  is  not 
"the  lesser  man."  (The  heart  is  not  the  brain.)  The  best  of  the 
piece  of  fifty  years  since  is  its  concluding  line  • 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises  roaring  seaward  and  I  go. 

Then  for  this  current  1886-7,  a  just-out  sequel,  which  (as  an  appar 
ently  authentic  summary  says)  "  reviews  the  life  of  mankind  during  the 
past  sixty  years,  and  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  its  boasted  progress 
is  of  doubtful  credit  to  the  world  in  general  and  to  England  in  par 
ticular.  A  cynical  vein  of  denunciation  of  democratic  opinions  and 
aspirations  runs  throughout  the  poem  in  mark'd  contrast  with  the  spirit 
of  the  poet's  youth."  Among  the  most  striking  lines  of  this  sequel 
are  the  following  : 

Envy  wears  the  mask  of  love,  and,  laughing  sober  fact  to  scorn, 
Cries  to  weakest  as  to  strongest,  «  Ye  are  equals,  equal  born,* 
Equal-born  !     Oh  yes,  if  yonder  hill  be  level  with  the  flat. 
Charm  us,  orator,  till  the  lion  look  no  larger  than  the  cat  : 
Till  the  cat,  through  that  mirage  of  overheated  language,  loom 
Larger  than  the  lion  Demo  — end  in  working  its  own  doom. 
Tumble  Nature  heel  o'er  head,  and,  yelling  with  the  yelling  street, 


4.04  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Set  the  feet  above  the  brain,  and  swear  the  brain  is  in  the  feet, 
Bring  the  old  dark  ages  back,  without  the  faith,  without  the  hope 
Beneath  the  State, the  Church,  the  Throne,  and  roll  their  ruins  down  the  slope. 

I  should  say  that  all  this  is  a  legitimate  consequence  of  the  tone  and 
convictions  of  the  earlier  standards  and  points  of  view.  Then  some 
reflections,  down  to  the  hard-pan  of  this  sort  of  thing. 

The  course  of  progressive  politics  (democracy)  is  so  certain  and 
resistless,  not  only  in  America  but  in  Europe,  that  we  can  well  afford 
the  warning  calls,  threats,  checks,  neutralizings,  in  imaginative  litera 
ture,  or  any  department,  of  such  deep-sounding,  and  high-soaring  voices 
as  Carlyle's  and  Tennyson's.  Nay,  the  blindness,  excesses,  of  the 
prevalent  tendency  —  the  dangers  of  the  urgent  trends  of  our  times — 
in  my  opinion,  need  such  voices  almost  more  than  any.  I  should, 
too,  call  it  a  signal  instance  of  democratic  humanity's  luck  that  it  has  such 
enemies  to  contend  with  —  so  candid,  so  fervid,  so  heroic.  But  why  do 
I  say  enemies  ?  Upon  the  whole  is  not  Tennyson  —  and  was  not 
Carlyle  (like  an  honest  and  stern  physician)  —  the  true  friend  of  our  age? 

Let  me  assume  to  pass  verdict,  or  perhaps  momentary  judgment,  for 
the  United  States  on  this  poet  —  a  removed  and  distant  position  giving 
some  advantages  over  a  nigh  one.  What  is  Tennyson's  service  to  his 
race,  times,  and  especially  to  America  ?  First,  I  should  say  —  or  at 
least  not  forget — his  personal  character.  He  is  not  to  be  mention' d 
as  a  rugged,  evolutionary,  aboriginal  force  —  but  (and  a  great  lesson 
is  in  it)  he  has  been  consistent  throughout  with  the  native,  healthy, 
patriotic  spinal  element  and  promptings  of  himself.  His  moral  line  is 
local  and  conventional,  but  it  is  vital  and  genuine.  He  reflects  the 
uppercrust  of  his  time,  its  pale  cast  of  thought  —  even  its  ennui.  Then 
the  simile  of  my  friend  John  Burroughs  is  entirely  true,  "his  glove  is 
a  glove  of  silk,  but  the  hand  is  a  hand  of  iron."  He  shows  how  one 
can  be  a  royal  laureate,  quite  elegant  and  "aristocratic,"  and  a  little 
queer  and  affected,  and  at  the  same  time  perfectly  manly  and  natural. 
As  to  his  non-democracy,  it  fits  him  well,  and  I  like  him  the  better 
for  it.  I  guess  we  all  like  to  have  (I  am  sure  I  do)  some  one  who 
presents  those  sides  of  a  thought,  or  possibility,  different  from  our  own 
—  different  and  yet  with  a  sort  of  home-likeness  —  a  tartness  and  con 
tradiction  offsetting  the  theory  as  we  view  it,  and  construed  from  tastes 
and  proclivities  not  at  all  his  own. 

To  me,  Tennyson  shows  more  than  any  poet  I  know  (perhaps  has 
been  a  warning  to  me)  how  much  there  is  in  finest  verbalism.  There 
is  such  a  latent  charm  in  mere  words,  cunning  collocutions,  and  in  the 
voice  ringing  them,  which  he  has  caught  and  brought  out,  beyond  all 
others  —  as  in  the  line, 

And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow,  all  delight, 


NOVEMBER   BOUGHS  405 

in  "  The  Passing  of  Arthur,"  and  evidenced  in  "The  Lady  of  Shalott," 
"The  Deserted  House,"  and  many  other  pieces.  Among  die  best 
(I  often  linger  over  them  again  and  again)  are  "Lucretius,"  "  The 
Lotos  Eaters,"  and  "The  Northern  Farmer. "  His  mannerism  is 
great,  but  it  is  a  noble  and  welcome  mannerism.  His  very  best 
work',  to  me,  is  contain' d  in  the  books  of  "  The  Idylls  of  the  King," 
and  all  that  has  grown  out  of  them.  Though  indeed  we  could  spare 
nothing  of  Tennyson,  however  small  or  however  peculiar  —  not 
"Break,  Break,"  nor  "Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall,"  nor  the  old, 
eternally-told  passion  of  "Edward  Gray:" 

Love  may  come  and  love  may  go, 

And  fly  like  a  bird  from  tree  to  tree. 
But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more 

Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

Yes,  Alfred  Tennyson's  is  a  superb  character,  and  will  help  give 
illustriousness,  through  the  long  roll  of  time,  to  our  Nineteenth 
Century.  In  its  bunch  of  orbic  names,  shining  like  a  constellation 
of  stars,  his  will  be  one  of  the  brightest.  His  very  faults,  doubts, 
swervings,  doublings  upon  himself,  have  been  typical  of  our  ^  age. 
We  are  like  the  voyagers  of  a  ship,  casting  off  for  new  seas,  distant 
shores.  We  would  still  dwell  in  the  old  suffocating  and  dead  haunts, 
remembering  and  magnifying  their  pleasant  experiences  only,  and 
more  than  once  impell'd  to  jump  ashore  before  it  is  too  late,  and 
stay  where  our  fathers  stay'd,  and  live  as  they  lived. 

May-be  I  am  non-literary  and  non-decorous  (let  me  at  least  be 
human,  and  pay  part  of  my  debt)  in  this  word  about  Tennyson. 
I  want  him  to  realize  that  here  is  a  great  and  ardent  Nation  that 
absorbs  his  songs,  and  has  a  respect  and  affection  for  him  personally, 
as  almost  for  no  other  foreigner.  I  want  this  word  to  go  to  the  old 
man  at  Farringford  as  conveying  no  more  than  the  simple  truth  ; 
and  that  truth  (a  little  Christmas  gift)  no  slight  one  either.  I  have 
written  impromptu,  and  shall  let  it  all  go  at  that.  The  readers  of 
more  than  fifty  millions  of  people  in  the  New  World  not  only  owe 
to  him  some  of  their  most  agreeable  and  harmless  and  healthy  hours, 
but  he  has  enter' d  into  the  formative  influences  of  character  here,  not 
only  in  the  Atlantic  cities,  but  inland  and  far  West,  out  in  Missouri, 
in  Kansas,  and  away  in  Oregon,  in  farmer's  house  and  miner's  cabin. 
Best  thanks,  anyhow,  to  Alfred  Tennyson  —  thanks  and  appre 
ciation  in  America's  name. 


SLANG    IN    AMERICA 


VIEW'D  freely,  the  English  language  is  the  accretion  and  growth 
of  every  dialect,  race,  and  range  of  time,  and  is  both  the  free  and 
compacted  composition  of  all.  From  this  point  of  view,  it  stands 
for  Language  in  the  largest  sense,  and  is  really  the  greatest  of  studies. 
It  involves  so  much ;  is  indeed  a  sort  of  universal  absorber,  combiner, 
and  conqueror.  The  scope  of  its  etymologies  is  the  scope  not  only 
of  man  and  civilization,  but  the  history  of  Nature  in  all  departments, 
and  of  the  organic  Universe,  brought  up  to  date ;  for  all  are  compre 
hended  in  words,  and  their  backgrounds.  This  is  when  words 
become  vitaliz'd,  and  stand  for  things,  as  they  unerringly  and  soon 
come  to  do,  in  the  mind  that  enters  on  their  study  with  fitting  spirit, 
grasp,  and  appreciation. 

Slang,  profoundly  consider' d,  is  the  lawless  germinal  element, 
below  all  words  and  sentences,  and  behind  all  poetry,  and  proves  a 
certain  perennial  rankness  and  protestantism  in  speech.  As  the 
United  States  inherit  by  far  their  most  precious  possession  —  the 
language  they  talk  and  write  —  from  the  Old  World,  under  and  out 
of  its  feudal  institutes,  I  will  allow  myself  to  borrow  a  simile  even  of 
those  forms  farthest  removed  from  American  Democracy.  Consider 
ing  Language  then  as  some  mighty  potentate,  into  the  majestic 
audience-hall  of  the  monarch  ever  enters  a  personage  like  one  of 
Shakspere's  clowns,  and  takes  position  there,  and  plays  a  part  even 
in  the  stateliest  ceremonies.  Such  is  Slang,  or  indirection,  an 
attempt  of  common  humanity  to  escape  from  bald  literalism,  and 
express  itself  illimitably,  which  in  highest  walks  produces  poets  and 
poems,  and  doubtless  in  pre-historic  times  gave  the  start  to,  and  per 
fected,  the  whole  immense  tangle  of  the  old  mythologies.  For, 
curious  as  it  may  appear,  it  is  strictly  the  same  impulse-source,  the 
same  thing.  Slang,  too,  is  the  wholesome  fermentation  or  eructation 
of  those  processes  eternally  active  in  language,  by  which  froth  and 
specks  are  thrown  up,  mostly  to  pass  away;  though  occasionally  to 
settle  and  permanently  crystallize. 

To  make  it  plainer,  it  is  certain  that  many  of  the  oldest  and  solid- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  407 

cst  words  we  use,  were  originally  generated  from  the  daring  and 
license  of  slang.  In  the  processes  of  word-formation,  myriads  die, 
but  here  and  there  the  attempt  attracts  superior  meanings,  becomes 
valuable  and  indispensable,  and  lives  forever.  Thus  the  term  right 
means  literally  only  straight.  Wrong  primarily  meant  twisted,  dis 
torted.  Integrity  meant  oneness.  Spirit  meant  breath,  or  flame. 
A  supercilious  person  was  one  who  rais'd  his  eyebrows.  To  insult 
was  to  leap  against.  If  you  influenced  a  man,  you  but  flow'd  into 
him.  The  Hebrew  word  which  is  translated  prophesy  meant  to 
bubble  up  and  pour  forth  as  a  fountain.  The  enthusiast  bubbles  up 
with  the  Spirit  of  God  within  him,  and  it  pours  forth  from  him  like 
a  fountain.  The  word  prophecy  is  misunderstood.  Many  suppose 
that  it  is  limited  to  mere  prediction  ;  that  is  but  the  lesser  portion  of 
prophecy.  The  greater  work  is  to  reveal  God.  Every  true  religious 
enthusiast  is  a  prophet. 

Language,  be  it  remember*  d,  is  not  an  abstract  construction  of  the 
learn* d,  or  of  dictionary-makers,  but  is  something  arising  out  of  the 
work,  needs,  ties,  joys,  affections,  tastes,  of  long  generations  of 
humanity,  and  has  its  bases  broad  and  low,  close  to  the  ground.  Its 
final  decisions  are  made  by  the  masses,  people  nearest  the  concrete, 
having  most  to  do  with  actual  land  and  sea.  It  impermeates  all,  the 
Past  as  well  as  the  Present,  and  is  the  grandest  triumph  of  the  human 
intellect.  "Those  mighty  works  of  art,"  says  Addington  Symonds, 
"  which  we  call  languages,  in  the  construction  of  which  whole  peoples 
unconsciously  co-operated,  the  forms  of  which  were  determin'd  not 
by  individual  genius,  but  by  the  instincts  of  successive  generations, 
acting  to  one  end,  inherent  in  the  nature  of  the  race  —  Those  poems 
of  pure  thought  and  fancy,  cadenced  not  in  words,  but  in  living 
imagery,  fountain-heads  of  inspiration,  mirrors  of  the  mind  of  nascent 
nations,  which  we  call  Mythologies  —  these  surely  are  more  marvel 
lous  in  their  infantine  spontaneity  than  any  more  mature  production  of 
the  races  which  evolv'd  them.  Yet  we  are  utterly  ignorant  of  their 
embryology;  the  true  science  of  Origins  is  yet  in  its  cradle." 

Daring  as  it  is  to  say  so,  in  the  growth  of  Language  it  is  certain 
that  the  retrospect  of  slang  from  the  start  would  be  the  recalling  from 
their  nebulous  conditions  of  all  that  is  poetical  in  the  stores  of  human 
utterance.  Moreover,  the  honest  delving,  as  of  late  years,  by  the 
German  and  British  workers  in  comparative  philology,  has  pierc'd  and 
dispersed  many  of  the  falsest  bubbles  of  centuries;  and  will  disperse 
many  more.  It  was  long  recorded  that  in  Scandinavian  mythology 
the  heroes  in  the  Norse  Paradise  drank  out  of  the  skulls  of  their  slain 
enemies.  Later  investigation  proves  the  word  taken  for  skulls  to  mean 
horns  of  beasts  slain  in  the  hunt.  And  what  reader  had  not  been 
exercis'd  over  the  traces  of  that  feudal  custom,  by  which  seigneurs 


408  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

warm'd  their  feet  in  the  bowels  of  serfs,  the  abdomen  being  open'd 
for  the  purpose  ?  It  now  is  made  to  appear  that  the  serf  was  only 
required  to  submit  his  unharm'd  abdomen  as  a  foot  cushion  while  his 
lord  supp'd,  and  was  required  to  chafe  the  legs  of  the  seigneur  with 
his  hands. 

It  is  curiously  in  embryons  and  childhood,  and  among  the  illiterate, 
we  always  find  the  groundwork  and  start,  of  this  great  science,  and  its 
noblest  products.  What  a  relief  most  people  have  in  speaking  of  a 
man  not  by  his  true  and  formal  name,  with  a  "  Mister  "  to  it,  but  by 
some  odd  or  homely  appellative.  The  propensity  to  approach  a 
meaning  not  directly  and  squarely,  but  by  circuitous  styles  of  expres 
sion,  seems  indeed  a  born  quality  of  the  common  people  everywhere, 
evidenced  by  nick-names,  and  the  inveterate  determination  of  the 
masses  to  bestow  sub-titles,  sometimes  ridiculous,  sometimes  very  apt. 
Always  among  the  soldiers  during  the  secession  war,  one  heard  of 
"Little  Mac"  (Gen.  McClellan),  or  of  "Uncle  Billy"  (Gen. 
Sherman.)  "  The  old  man  "  was,  of  course,  very  common.  Among 
the  rank  and  file,  both  armies,  it  was  very  general  to  speak  of  the 
different  States  they  came  from  by  their  slang  names.  Those  from 
Maine  were  calPd  Foxes;  New  Hampshire,  Granite  Boys;  Massa 
chusetts,  Bay  Staters ;  Vermont,  Green  Mountain  Boys ;  Rhode 
Island,  Gun  Flints ;  Connecticut,  Wooden  Nutmegs  ;  New  York, 
Knickerbockers  ;  New  Jersey,  Clam  Catchers ;  Pennsylvania,  Logher 
Heads ;  Delaware,  Muskrats  ;  Maryland,  Claw  Thumpers ;  Virginia, 
Beagles;  North  Carolina,  Tar  Boilers;  South  Carolina,  Weasels; 
Georgia,  Buzzards;  Louisiana,  Creoles;  Alabama,  Lizards;  Ken 
tucky,  Corn  Crackers ;  Ohio,  Buckeyes  ;  Michigan,  Wolverines  ; 
Indiana,  Hoosiers  ;  Illinois,  Suckers  ;  Missouri,  Pukes  ;  Mississippi, 
Tadpoles  ;  Florida,  Fly  up  the  Creeks  ;  Wisconsin,  Badgers  ;  Iowa, 
Hawkeyes  ;  Oregon,  Hard  Cases.  Indeed  I  am  not  sure  but  slang 
names  have  more  than  once  made  Presidents.  "  Old  Hickory," 
(Gen.  Jackson)  is  one  case  in  point.  "  Tippecanoe,  and  Tyler  too," 
another. 

I  find  the  same  rule  in  the  people's  conversations  everywhere.  I 
heard  this  among  the  men  of  the  city  horse-cars,  where  the  conductor 
is  often  calPd  a  "snatcher  "  (i.  e.  because  his  characteristic  duty  is  to 
constantly  pull  or  snatch  the  bell-strap,  to  stop  or  go  on.)  Two 
young  fellows  are  having  a  friendly  talk,  amid  which,  says  1st  con 
ductor,  "What  did  you  do  before  you  was  a  snatcher  ?  "  Answer 
of  zd  conductor,  "NaiPd."  (Translation  of  answer  :  "  I  work'd 
as  carpenter.")  What  is  a  "boom"  ?  says  one  editor  to  another. 
"Esteem'd  contemporary,"  says  the  other,  "a  boom  is  a  bulge." 
"Barefoot  whiskey"  is  the  Tennessee  name  for  the  undiluted  stimu 
lant.  In  the  slang  of  the  New  York  common  restaurant  waiters  a 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  4°9 

plate  of  ham  and  beans  is  known  as  "stars  and  stripes,"  codfish  balls 
as  "sleeve-buttons,"  and  hash  as  "mystery." 

The  Western  States  of  the  Union  are,  however,  as  may  be  supposed, 
the  special  areas  of  slang,  not  only  in  conversation,  but  in  names  of 
localities,  towns,  rivers,  etc.  A  late  Oregon  traveller  says  : 

"  On  your  way  to  Olympia  by  rail,  you  cross  a  river  called  the  Shookum- 
Chuck;  your  train  stops  at  places  named  Newaukum,  Tumwater,  and 
Toutle  ;  and  if  you  seek  further  you  will  hear  of  whole  counties  labelled 
Wahkiakum,  or  Snohomish,  or  Kitsar,  or  Klikatat ;  and  Cowlitz,  Hookium, 
and  Nenolelops  greet  and  offend  you.  They  complain  in  Olympia  that 
Washington  Territory  gets  but  little  immigration  5  but  what  wonder  ? 
What  man,  having  the  whole  American  continent  to  choose  from,  would 
willingly  date  his  letters  from  the  county  of  Snohomish  or  bring  up  his 
children  in  the  city  of  Nenolelops  ?  The  village  of  Tumwater  is,  as  I  am 
ready  to  bear  witness,  very  pretty  indeed  ;  but  surely  an  emigrant  would 
think  twice  before  he  established  himself  either  there  or  at  Toutle.  Seattle 
is  sufficiently  barbarous;  Stelicoom  is  no  better;  and  I  suspect  that  the 
Northern  Pacific  Railroad  terminus  has  been  fixed  at  Tacoma  because  it  is 
one  of  the  few  places  on  Puget  Sound  whose  name  does  not  inspire  horror." 

Then  a  Nevada  paper  chronicles  the  departure  of  a  mining  party  from 
Reno  :  "  The  toughest  set  of  roosters  that  ever  shook  the  dust  off  any 
town  left  Reno  yesterday  for  the  new  mining  district  of  Cornucopia. 
They  came  here  from  Virginia.  Among  the  crowd  were  four  New 
York  cock-fighters,  two  Chicago  murderers,  three  Baltimore  bruisers, 
one  Philadelphia  prize-fighter,  four  San  Francisco  hoodlums,  three 
Virginia  beats,  two  Union  Pacific  roughs,  and  two  check  guerrillas." 
Among  the  far-west  newspapers,  have  been,  or  are,  The  Fairplay 
(Colorado)  Flume,  The  Solid  Muldoon,  of  Ouray,  The  Tombstone 
Epitaph,  of  Nevada,  The  Jimplecute,  of  Texas,  and  The  Bazoo,  of 
Missouri.  Shirttail  Bend,  Whiskey  Flat,  Puppytown,  Wild  Yankee 
Ranch,  Squaw  Flat,  Rawhide  Ranch,  Loafer's  Ravine,  Squitch  Gulch, 
Toenail  Lake,  are  a  few  of  the  names  of  places  in  Butte  county,  Cal. 

Perhaps  indeed  no  place  or  term  gives  more  luxuriant  ^  illustrations 
of  the  fermentation  processes  I  have  mention' d,  and  their  froth  and 
specks,  than  those  Mississippi  and  Pacific  coast  regions,  at  the  present 
day.  Hasty  and  grotesque  as  are  some  of  the  names,  others  are  of  an 
appropriateness  and  originality  unsurpassable.  This  applies  to  the 
Indian  words,  which  are  often  perfect.  Oklahoma  is  proposed  in 
Congress  for  the  name  of  one  of  our  new  Territories.  Hog-eye,  Lick- 
skillet,  Rake-pocket  and  Steal-easy  are  the  names  of  some  Texan 
towns.  Miss  Bremer  found  among  the  aborigines  the  following 
names  :  Men's,  Horn-point;  Round- Wind  ;  Stand-and-look-out ;  The- 
Cloud-that-goes-aside  ;  Iron-toe  ;  Seek-the-sun  ;  Iron-flash  ;  Red- 
bottle  ;  White-spindle;  Black-dog;  Two-feathers-of-honor ;  Gray- 


410  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

grass  ;  Bushy-tail  ;  Thunder-face  ;  Go-on-the-burning-sod  ;  Spirits- 
of-the-dead.  Women* s,  Keep-the-fire ;  Spiritual- woman  ;  Second- 
daughter-of-the-house  ;  Blue-bird. 

Certainly  philologists  have  not  given  enough  attention  to  this  ele 
ment  and  its  results,  which,  I  repeat,  can  probably  be  found  working 
every  where  to-day,  amid  modern  conditions,  with  as  much  life  and 
activity  as  in  far-back  Greece  or  India,  under  prehistoric  ones.  Then 
the  wit  —  the  rich  flashes  of  humor  and  genius  and  poetry  —  darting 
out  often  from  a  gang  of  laborers,  railroad-men,  miners,  drivers  or 
boatmen  !  How  often  have  I  hover*  d  at  the  edge  of  a  crowd  of 
them,  to  hear  their  repartees  and  impromptus  !  You  get  more  real 
fun  from  half  an  hour  with  them  than  from  the  books  of  all  "the 
American  humorists/' 

The  science  of  language  has  large  and  close  analogies  in  geological 
science,  with  its  ceaseless  evolution,  its  fossils,  and  its  numberless  sub 
merged  layers  and  hidden  strata,  the  infinite  go- before  of  the  present. 
Or,  perhaps  Language  is  more  like  some  vast  living  body,  or  perennial 
body  of  bodies.  And  slang  not  only  brings  the  first  feeders  of  it,  but 
is  afterward  the  start  of  fancy,  imagination  and  humor,  breathing  into 
its  nostrils  the  breath  of  life. 


AN  INDIAN  BUREAU  REMI 
NISCENCE 


AFTER  the  close  of  the  secession  war  in  1865,  I  work'd  several 
months  (until  Mr.  Harlan  turn'd  me  out  for  having  written  "Leaves 
of  Grass")  in  the  Interior  Department  at  Washington,  in  the  Indian 
Bureau.  Along  this  time  there  came  to  see  their  Great  Father  an 
unusual  number  of  aboriginal  visitors,  delegations  for  treaties,  settle 
ment  of  lands,  &c. —  some  young  or  middle-aged,  but  mainly  old  men, 
from  the  West,  North,  and  occasionally  from  the  South  —  parties  of 
from  five  to  twenty  each  —  the  most  wonderful  proofs  of  what  Nature 
can  produce,  (the  survival  of  the  fittest,  no  doubt  —  all  the  frailer 
samples  dropt,  sorted  out  by  death)  —  as  if  to  show  how  the  earth  and 
woods,  the  attrition  of  storms  and  elements,  and  the  exigencies  of  life 
at  first  hand,  can  train  and  fashion  men,  indeed  chiefs,  in  heroic 
massiveness,  imperturbability,  muscle,  and  that  last  and  highest  beauty 
consisting  of  strength  —  the  full  exploitation  and  fruitage  of  a  human 
identity,  not  from  the  culmination-points  of  "culture"  and  artificial 
civilization,  but  tallying  our  race,  as  it  were,  with  giant,  vital,  gnarl'd, 
enduring  trees,  or  monoliths  of  separate  hardiest  rocks,  and  humanity 
holding  its  own  with  the  best  of  the  said  trees  or  rocks,  and  outdoing 

them. 

There  were  Omahas,  Poncas,  Winnebagoes,  Cheyennes,  Navahos, 
Apaches,  and  many  others.  Let  me  give  a  running  account  of 
what  I  see  and  hear  through  one  of  these  conference  collections  at  the 
Indian  Bureau,  going  back  to  the  present  tense.  Every  head  and  face 
is  impressive,  even  artistic  ;  Nature  redeems  herself  out  of  her  crudest 
recesses.  Most  have  red  paint  on  their  cheeks,  however,  or  some 
other  paint.  ("  Little  Hill"  makes  the  opening  speech,  which  the 
interpreter  translates  by  scraps.)  Many  wear  head  tires  of  gaudy- 
color*  d  braid,  wound  around  thickly  —  some  with  circlets  of  eagles* 
feathers.  Necklaces  of  bears'  claws  are  plenty  around  their  necks. 
Most  of  the  chiefs  are  wrapt  in  large  blankets  of  the  brightest  scarlet. 


4i2  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Two  or  three  have  blue,  and  I  see  one  black.  (A  wise  man  call'd 
"the  Flesh"  now  makes  a  short  speech,  apparently  asking  something. 
Indian  Commissioner  Dole  answers  him,  and  the  interpreter  trans 
lates  in  scraps  again. )  All  the  principal  chiefs  have  tomahawks  or 
hatchets,  some  of  them  very  richly  ornamented  and  costly.  Plaid 
shirts  are  to  be  observed  —  none  too  clean.  Now  a  tall  fellow, 
"  Hole-in-the-Day,"  is  speaking.  He  has  a  copious  head-dress  com 
posed  of  feathers  and  narrow  ribbon,  under  which  appears  a  counte 
nance  painted  all  over  a  bilious  yellow.  Let  us  note  this  young  chief. 
For  all  his  paint,  «  Hole-in-the-Day  "  is  a  handsome  Indian,  mild 
and  calm,  dress' d  in  drab  buckskin  leggings,  dark  gray  surtout,  and  a 
soft  black  hat.  His  costume  will  bear  full  observation,  and  even 
fashion  would  accept  him.  His  apparel  is  worn  loose  and  scant 
enough  to  show  his  superb  physique,  especially  in  neck,  chest,  and 
legs.  ("The  Apollo  Belvidere  !"  was  the  involuntary  exclamation 
of  a  famous  European  artist  when  he  first  saw  a  full-grown  young 
Choctaw.) 

One  of  the  red  visitors  —  a  wild,  lean-looking  Indian,  the  one  in 
the  black  woolen  wrapper  —  has  an  empty  buffalo  head,  with  the 
horns  on,  for  his  personal  surmounting.  I  see  a  markedly  Bourbonish 
countenance  among  the  chiefs  —  (it  is  not  very  uncommon  among 
them,  I  am  told. )  Most  of  them  avoided  resting  on  chairs  during  the 
hour  of  their  "talk"  in  the  Commissioner's  office;  they  would  sit 
around  on  the  floor,  leaning  against  something,  or  stand  up  by  the 
walls,  partially  wrapt  in  their  blankets.  Though  some  of  the  young 
fellows  were,  as  I  have  said,  magnificent  and  beautiful  animals,  I 
think  the  palm  of  unique  picturesqueness,  in  body,  limb,  physiognomy, 
&c.,  was  borne  by  the  old  or  elderly  chiefs,  and  the  wise  men. 

My  here-alluded-to  experience  in  the  Indian  Bureau  produced  one 
very  definite  conviction,  as  follows  :  There  is  something  about  these 
aboriginal  Americans,  in  their  highest  characteristic  representations, 
essential  traits,  and  the  ensemble  of  their  physique  and  physiognomy 
—  something  very  remote,  very  lofty,  arousing  comparisons  with  our 
own  civilized  ideals  —  something  that  our  literature,  portrait  painting, 
&c.,  have  never  caught,  and  that  will  almost  certainly  never  be  trans 
mitted  to  the  future,  even  as  a  reminiscence.  No  biographer,  no 
historian,  no  artist,  has  grasp' d  it  —  perhaps  could  not  grasp  it.  It  is 
so  different,  so  far  outside  our  standards  of  eminent  humanity.  Their 
feathers,  paint  —  even  the  empty  buffalo  skull  —  did  not,  to  say  the 
least,^  seem  any  more  ludicrous  to  me  than  many  of  the  fashions  I  have 
seen  in  civilized  society.  I  should  not  apply  the  word  savage  (at  any 
rate,  in  the  usual  sense)  as  a  leading  word  in  the  description  of  those 
great  aboriginal  specimens,  of  whom  I  certainly  saw  many  of  the  best. 
There  were  moments,  as  I  look'd  at  them  or  studied  them,  when  our 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  4'3 

own  exemplification  of  personality,  dignity,  heroic  presentation  any 
how  (as  in  the  conventions  of  society,  or  even  in  the  accepted  poems 
and  plays,)  seem'd  sickly,  puny,  inferior. 

The  interpreters,  agents  of  the  Indian  Department,  or  other  whites 
accompanying  the  bands,  in  positions  of  responsibility,  were  always 
interesting  to  me  ;  I  had  many  talks  with  them.  Occasionally  I 
would  go  to  the  hotels  where  the  bands  were  quartered,  and  spend  an 
hour  or  two  informally.  Of  course  we  could  not  have  much  conver 
sation  though  (through  the  interpreters)  more  of  this  than  might  be 

supposed  —  sometimes  quite  animated  and  significant.  I  had  the  good 
luck  to  be  invariably  receiv'd  and  treated  by  all  of  them  in  their  most 
cordial  manner. 

[Letter  to  W.  W.  from  an  artist,  B.  H.,  who  has  been  much  among 
the  American  Indians  :] 

««  I  have  just  receiv'd  your  little  paper  on  the  Indian  delegations. 
In  the  fourth  paragraph  you  say  that  there  is  something  about  the 
essential  traits  of  our  aborigines  which  '  will  almost  certainly  never  be 
transmitted  to  the  future.'  If  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  regain  my  health 
I  hope  to  weaken  the  force  of  that  statement,  at  least  in  so  far  as  my 
talent  and  training  will  permit.  I  intend  to  spend  some  years  among 
them,  and  shall  endeavor  to  perpetuate  on  canvas  some  of  the  finer 
types,  both  men  and  women,  and  some  of  the  characteristic  features  of 
their  life.  It  will  certainly  be  well  worth  the  while.  My  artistic 
enthusiasm  was  never  so  thoroughly  stirr'd  up  as  by  the  Indians. 
They  certainly  have  more  of  beauty,  dignity  and  nobility  mingled 
with  their  own  wild  individuality,  than  any  of  the  other  indigenous 
types  of  man.  Neither  black  nor  Afghan,  Arab  nor  Malay  (and  I 
know  them  all  pretty  well)  can  hold  a  candle  to  the  Indian.  All  of 
the  other  aboriginal  types  seem  to  be  more  or  less  distorted  from  the 
model  of  perfect  human  form  —  as  we  know  it  —  the  blacks,  thin- 
hipped,  with  bulbous  limbs,  not  well  mark'd;  the  Arabs  large -jointed, 
&c.  But  I  have  seen  many  a  young  Indian  as  perfect  in  form  and 
feature  as  a  Greek  statue  —  very  different  from  a  Greek  statue,  of 
course,  but  as  satisfying  to  the  artistic  perceptions  and  demand. 

•«  And  the  worst,  or  perhaps  the  best  of  it  all  is  that  it  will  require 

an  artist and  a  good  one  —  to  record  the  real  facts  and  impressions. 

Ten  thousand  photographs  would  not  have  the  value  of  one  really 
finely  felt  painting.  Color  is  all-important.  No  one  but  an  artist 
knows  how  much.  An  Indian  is  only  half  an  Indian  without  the 
blue-black  hair  and  the  brilliant  eyes  shining  out  of  the  wonderful 
dusky  ochre  and  rose  complexion." 


SOME    DIARY   NOTES    AT 
RANDOM 


NEGRO  SLAVES  IN  I  CAN  myself  almost  remember  negro  slaves 
NEW  YORK  in  New  York  State,  as  my  grandfather  and 

great-grandfather  (at  West  Hills,  Suffolk 

county,  New  York)  own'd  a  number.  The  hard  labor  of  the  farm 
was  mostly  done  by  them,  and  on  the  floor  of  the  big  kitchen,  toward 
sundown,  would  be  squatting  a  circle  of  twelve  or  fourteen  "  picka 
ninnies,"  eating  their  supper  of  pudding  (Indian  corn  mush)  and  milk. 
A  friend  of  my  grandfather,  named  Wortman,  of  Oyster  Bay,  died  in 
1 8 10,  leaving  ten  slaves.  Jeanette  Treadwell,  the  last  of  them,  died 
suddenly  in  Flushing  last  summer  (1884,)  at  the  age  of  ninety-four 
years.  I  remember  "old  Mose,"  one  of  the  liberated  West  Hills 
slaves,  well.  He  was  very  genial,  correct,  manly,  and  cute,  and  a 
great  friend  of  my  childhood. 

CANADA  NIGHTS  -  Three  wondrous  nights.  Effects  of  moon, 
Late  in  August —  clouds,  stars,  and  night-sheen,  never  sur 

pass' d.      I  am  out  every  night,  enjoying 

all.  The  sunset  begins  it.  (I  have  said  already  how  long  evening 
lingers  here.)  The  moon,  an  hour  high  just  after  eight,  is  past  her 
half,  and  looks  somehow  more  like  a  human  face  up  there  than  ever 
before.  As  it  grows  later,  we  have  such  gorgeous  and  broad  cloud- 
effects,  with  Luna's  tawny  halos,  silver  edgings  —  great  fleeces,  depths 
of  blue-black  in  patches,  and  occasionally  long,  low  bars  hanging 
silently  a  while,  and  then  gray  bulging  masses  rolling  along  stately, 
sometimes  in  long  procession.  The  moon  travels  in  Scorpion  to-night, 
and  dims  all  the  stars  of  that  constellation  except  fiery  Antares,  who 
keeps  on  shining  just  to  the  big  one's  side. 

COUNTRY  DAYS  Sept.  30,  '82,  4.30  A.M.— I  am  down 

AND  NIGHTS —  in  Camden  county,   New  Jersey,  at  the 

farmhouse    of  the    Staffords  —  have  been 
looking  a  long  while  at  the  comet  —  have  in  my  time  seen  longer- tail' d 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  415 

ones,  but  never  one  so  pronounced  in  cometary  character,  and  so 
spectral-fierce  —  so  like  some  great,  pale,  living  monster  of  the  air  or 
sea.  The  atmosphere  and  sky,  an  hour  or  so  before  sunrise,  so  cool, 
still,  translucent,  give  the  whole  apparition  to  great  advantage.  It  is 
low  in  the  east.  The  head  shows  about  as  big  as  an  ordinary  good- 
sized  saucer  —  is  a  perfectly  round  and  defined  disk  —  the  tail  some 
sixty  or  seventy  feet  —  not  a  stripe,  but  quite  broad,  and  gradually 
expanding.  Impress'  d  with  the  silent,  inexplicably  emotional  sight,  I 
linger  and  look  till  all  begins  to  weaken  in  the  break  of  day. 

October  2.  —  The  third  day  of  mellow,  delicious,  sunshiny 
weather.  I  am  writing  this  in  the  recesses  of  the  old  woods,  my 
seat  on  a  big  pine  log,  my  back  against  a  tree.  Am  down  here  a 
few  days  for  a  change,  to  bask  in  the  Autumn  sun,  to  idle  lusciously 
and  simply,  and  to  eat  hearty  meals,  especially  my  breakfast.  Warm 
mid-days — the  other  hours  of  the  twenty -four  delightfully  fresh  and 
mild  —  cool  evenings,  and  early  mornings  perfect.  The  scent  of  the 
woods,  and  the  peculiar  aroma  of  a  great  yet  unreap'd  maize-field 

near    by — the    white    butterflies    in    every    direction    by    day the 

golden-rod,  the  wild  asters,  and  sunflowers — the  song  of  the  katydid 
all  night. 

Every  day  in  Cooper's  Woods,  enjoying  simple  existence  and  the 
passing  hours  —  taking  short  walks — exercising  arms  and  chest  with 
the  saplings,  or  my  voice  with  army  songs  or  recitations.  A  perfect 
week  for  weather  ;  seven  continuous  days  bright  and  dry  and  cool 
and  sunny.  The  nights  splendid,  with  full  moon — about  10  the 
grandest  of  star-shows  up  in  the  east  and  south,  Jupiter,  Saturn, 
Capella,  Aldebaran,  and  great  Orion.  Am  feeling  pretty  well — 
am  outdoors  most  of  the  time,  absorbing  the  days  and  nights  all 
I  can. 

CENTRAL  PARK  Am   in    New    York    city,   upper  part  — 

NOTES  visit  Central   Park  almost  every  day  (and 

American  Society  from  a  Park     have  for   the  last   three    weeks)    off"  and 
:ema"'  P°""°-f  "ew  on,  taking  observations  or  short  rambles, 

and  sometimes  riding  around.  I  talk 
quite  a  good  deal  with  one  of  the  Park 
policemen,  C.  C.,  up  toward  the  Ninetieth  street  entrance.  One 
day  in  particular  I  got  him  a-going,  and  it  proved  deeply  interesting 
to  me.  Our  talk  floated  into  sociology  and  politics.  I  was  curious 
to  find  how  these  things  appear' d  on  their  surfaces  to  my  friend, 
for  he  plainly  possess'd  sharp  wits  and  good  nature,  and  had  been 
seeing,  for  years,  broad  streaks  of  humanity  somewhat  out  of  my 
latitude.  I  found  that  as  he  took  such  appearances  the  inward  caste- 
spirit  of  European  "aristocracy"  pervaded  rich  America,  with  cyn- 
28 


416  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

icism  and  artificiality  at  the  fore.  Of  the  bulk  of  official  persons, 
Executives,  Congressmen,  Legislators,  Aldermen,  Department  heads, 
&c.,  &c.,  or  the  candidates  for  those  positions,  nineteen  in  twenty, 
in  the  policeman's  judgment,  were  just  players  in  a  game.  Liberty, 
Equality,  Union,  and  all  the  grand  words  of  the  Republic,  were, 
in  their  mouths,  but  lures,  decoys,  chisel' d  likenesses  of  dead  wood, 
to  catch  the  masses.  Of  fine  afternoons,  along  the  broad  tracks  of 
the  Park,  for  many  years,  had  swept  by  my  friend,  as  he  stood  on 
guard,  the  carriages,  &c.,  of  American  Gentility,  not  by  dozens  and 
scores,  but  by  hundreds  and  thousands.  Lucky  brokers,  capitalists, 
contractors,  grocery-men,  successful  political  strikers,  rich  butchers, 
dry  goods'  folk,  &c.  And  on  a  large  proportion  of  these  vehicles, 
on  panels  or  horse-trappings,  were  conspicuously  borne  heraldic 
family  crests.  (Can  this  really  be  true  ?)  In  wish  and  willingness 
(and  if  that  were  so,  what  matter  about  the  reality  ?)  titles  of  nobility, 
with  a  court  and  spheres  fit  for  the  capitalists,  the  highly  educated, 
and  the  carriage-riding  classes  —  to  fence  them  off  from  "the  com 
mon  people"  —  were  the  heart's  desire  of  the  "good  society"  of 
our  great  cities  —  aye,  of  North  and  South. 

So  much  for  my  police  friend's  speculations  —  which  rather  took 
me  aback  —  and  which  I  have  thought  I  would  just  print  as  he  gave 
them  (as  a  doctor  records  symptoms. ) 

PLATE  GLASS  St.    Louis,    Missouri,  November,    '??.— 

NOTES  What  do  you  think  I  find  manufactur'd 

out   here  —  and    of  a   kind    the    clearest 

and  largest,  best,  and  the  most  finish' d  and  luxurious  in  the  world 
—  and  with  ample  demand  for  it  too  ?  Plate  glass !  One  would 
suppose  that  was  the  last  dainty  outcome  of  an  old,  almost  effete- 
growing  civilization  ;  and  yet  here  it  is,  a  few  miles  from  St.  Louis, 
on  a  charming  little  river,  in  the  wilds  of  the  West,  near  the  Missis 
sippi.  I  went  down  that  way  to-day  by  the  Iron  Mountain  Rail 
road —  was  switch' d  off  on  a  side-track  four  miles  through  woods 
and  ravines,  to  Swash  Creek,  so- call' d,  and  there  found  Crystal 
city,  and  immense  Glass  Works,  built  (and  evidently  built  to  stay) 
right  in  the  pleasant  rolling  forest.  Spent  most  of  the  day,  and 
examin'd  the  inexhaustible  and  peculiar  sand  the  glass  is  made  of — 
the  original  whity-gray  stuff  in  the  banks  —  saw  the  melting  in  the 
pots  (a  wondrous  process,  a  real  poem)  —  saw  the  delicate  prepara 
tion  the  clay  material  undergoes  for  these  great  pots  (it  has  to  be 
kneaded  finally  by  human  feet,  no  machinery  answering,  and  I 
watch' d  the  picturesque  bare-legged  Africans  treading  it)  — saw  the 
molten  stuff  (a  great  mass  of  a  glowing  pale  yellow  color)  taken  out 
of  the  furnaces  (I  shall  never  forget  that  Pot,  shape,  color,  concern- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  417 

itants,  more  beautiful  than  any  antique  statue,)  pass'd  into  the  ad 
joining  casting-room,  lifted  by  powerful  machinery,  pour'd  out  on 
its  bed  (all  glowing,  a  newer,  vaster  study  for  colorists,  indescribable, 
a  pale  red-tinged  yellow,  of  tarry  consistence,  all  lambent,)  rolPd  by 
a  heavy  roller  into  rough  plate  glass,  I  should  say  ten  feet  by  four 
teen,  then  rapidly  shov'd  into  the  annealing  oven,  which  stood  ready 
for  it.  The  polishing  and  grinding  rooms  afterward — the  great 
glass  slabs,  hundreds  of  them,  on  their  flat  beds,  and  the  see-saw 
music  of  the  steam  machinery  constantly  at  work  polishing  them  — 
the  myriads  of  human  figures  (the  works  employ 'd  400  men)  moving 
about,  with  swart  arms  and  necks,  and  no  superfluous  clothing  — 
the  vast,  rude  halls,  with  immense  play  of  shifting  shade,  and  slow- 
moving  currents  of  smoke  and  steam,  and  shafts  of  light,  sometimes 
sun,  striking  in  from  above  with  effects  that  would  have  fill'd  Michel 
Angelo  with  rapture. 

Coming  back  to  St.  Louis  this  evening,  at  sundown,  and  for  over  an 
hour  afterward,  we  follow' d  the  Mississippi,  close  by  its  western 
bank,  giving  me  an  ampler  view  of  the  river,  and  with  effects  a  little 
different  from  any  yet.  In  the  eastern  sky  hung  the  planet  Mars, 
just  up,  and  of  a  very  clear  and  vivid  yellow.  It  was  a  soothing  and 
pensive  hour  —  the  spread  of  the  river  off  there  in  the  half-light  — 
the  glints  of  the  down-bound  steamboats  plodding  along  —  and  that 
yellow  orb  (apparently  twice  as  large  and  significant  as  usual)  above 
the  Illinois  shore.  (All  along,  these  nights,  nothing  can  exceed  the 
calm,  fierce,  golden,  glistening  domination  of  Mars  over  all  the  stars 
in  the  sky.) 

As  we  came  nearer  St.  Louis,  the  night  having  well  set  in,  I  saw 
some  (to  me)  novel  effects  in  the  zinc  smelting  establishments,  the 
tall  chimneys  belching  flames  at  the  top,  while  inside  through  the 
openings  at  the  fafades  of  the  great  tanks  burst  forth  (in  regular  posi 
tion)  hundreds  of  fierce  tufts  of  a  peculiar  blue  (or  green)  flame,  of  a 
purity  and  intensity,  like  electric  lights  —  illuminating  not  only  the 
great  buildings  themselves,  but  far  and  near  outside,  like  hues  of  the 
aurora  borealis,  only  more  vivid.  (So  that  —  remembering  the  Pot 
from  the  crystal  furnace  —  my  jaunt  seem'd  to  give  me  new  revelations 
in  the  color  line.) 


SOME  WAR  MEMORANDA 

Jotted  Down  at  the  Time 


I  FIND  this  incident  in  my  notes  (I  suppose  from  "chinning'*  in 
hospital  with  some  sick  or  wounded  soldier  who  knew  of  it)  : 

When  Kilpatrick  and  his  forces  were  cut  off  at  Brandy  station  (last 
of  September,  '63,  or  thereabouts,)  and  the  bands  struck  up  "Yankee 
Doodle, ' '  there  were  not  cannon  enough  in  the  Southern  Confederacy 
to  keep  him  and  them  "in."  It  was  when  Meade  fell  back.  K. 
had  his  large  cavalry  division  (perhaps  5,000  men,)  but  the  rebs,  in 
superior  force,  had  surrounded  them.  Things  look'd  exceedingly 
desperate.  K.  had  two  fine  bands,  and  order' d  them  up  immediately; 
they  join'd  and  play'd  "Yankee  Doodle"  with  a  will!  It  went 
through  the  men  like  lightning  —  but  to  inspire,  not  to  unnerve. 
Every  man  seem'd  a  giant.  They  charged  like  a  cyclone,  and  cut 
their  way  out.  Their  loss  was  but  20.  It  was  about  two  in  the 
afternoon. 

WASHINGTON  dfril  /,  1864.  —  Warmish  forenoon,  after 

STREET  SCENES  the  storm  of  the  past  few  days.     I  see, 

Walking  Down  Pennsylvania  passing  up,  in  the  broad  space  between 
Avenue  the  curbs,  a  big  squad  of  a  couple  of 

hundred  conscripts,  surrounded  by  a  strong 

cordon  of  arm'd  guards,  and  others  interspers'd  between  the  ranks. 
The  government  has  learn' d  caution  from  its  experiences;  there  are 
many  hundreds  of  "bounty  jumpers,"  and  already,  as  I  am  told, 
eighty  thousand  deserters!  Next  (also  passing  up  the  Avenue,)  a 
cavalry  company,  young,  but  evidently  well  drill' d  and  service-hard  en 'd 
men.  Mark  the  upright  posture  in  their  saddles,  the  bronz'd  and 
bearded  young  faces,  the  easy  swaying  to  the  motions  of  the  hoises, 
and  the  carbines  by  their  right  knees;  handsome  and  reckless,  some 
eighty  of  them,  riding  with  rapid  gait,  clattering  along.  Then  the 
tinkling  bells  of  passing  cars,  the  many  shops  (some  with  large  show- 
windows,  some  with  swords,  straps  for  the  shoulders  of  different  ranks, 
hat-cords  with  acorns,  or  other  insignia,)  the  military  patrol  marching 
along,  with  the  orderly  or  second-lieutenant  stopping  different  ones  to 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  419 

examine  passes  —  the  forms,  the  faces,  all  sorts  crowded  together,  the 
worn  and  pale,  the  pleas' d,  some  on  their  way  to  the  railroad  depot 
going  home,  the  cripples,  the  darkeys,  the  long  trains  of  government 
wagons,  or  the  sad  strings  of  ambulances  conveying  wounded  —  the 
many  officers'  horses  tied  in  front  of  the  drinking  or  oyster  saloons,  or 
held  by  black  men  or  boys,  or  orderlies. 

THE  I95TH  PENN-  Tuesday,  Aug.  i,  1865.—  About  3 o'clock 
SYLVANIA  this  afternoon  (sun  broiling  hot)  in  Fif 

teenth  street,  by  the  Treasury  building,  a 

large  and  handsome  regiment,  19 5th  Pennsylvania,  were  marching  by 
—  as  it  happen' d,  receiv'd  orders  just  here  to  halt  and  break  ranks, 
so  that  they  might  rest  themselves  awhile.  I  thought  I  never  saw  a 
finer  set  of  men  —  so  hardy,  candid,  bright  American  looks,  all 
weather-beaten,  and  with  warm  clothes.  Every  man  was  home-born. 
My  heart  was  much  drawn  toward  them.  They  seem'd  very  tired, 
red,  and  streaming  with  sweat.  It  is  a  one-year  regiment,  mostly 
from  Lancaster  county,  Pa. ;  have  been  in  Shenandoah  valley.  On 
halting,  the  men  unhitch' d  their  knapsacks,  and  sat  down  to  rest 
themselves.  Some  lay  flat  on  the  pavement  or  under  trees.  The  fine 
physical  appearance  of  the  whole  body  was  remarkable.  Great,  very 
great,  must  be  the  State  where  such  young  farmers  and  mechanics  are 
the  practical  average.  I  went  around  for  half  an  hour  and  talk'd 
with  several  of  them,  sometimes  squatting  down  with  the  groups. 

LEFT-HAND  WRIT-    April  jo,  1866.— Here  is  a  single  sig- 

ING  BY  SOLDIERS         nificant  fact,  from  which  one  may  judge 

of  the  character  of  the  American   soldiers 

in  this  just  concluded  war  :  A  gentleman  in  New  York  city,  a 
while  since,  took  it  into  his  head  to  collect  specimens  of  writing  from 
soldiers  who  had  lost  their  right  hands  in  battle,  and  afterwards 
learn' d  to  use  the  left.  He  gave  public  notice  of  his  desire,  and 
offer' d  prizes  for  the  best  of  these  specimens.  Pretty  soon  they  began 
to  come  in,  and  by  the  time  specified  for  awarding  the  prizes  three  hun 
dred  samples  of  such  left-hand  writing  by  maim'd  soldiers  had  arrived. 
I  have  just  been  looking  over  some  of  this  writing.  A  great  many 
of  the  specimens  are  written  in  a  beautiful  manner.  All  are  good. 
The  writing  in  nearly  all  cases  slants  backward  instead  of  forward. 
One  piece  of  writing,  from  a  soldier  who  had  lost  both  arms,  was 
made  by  holding  the  pen  in  his  mouth. 

CENTRAL  VIR-  Culpepper,   where   I  am   stopping,  looks 

GINIA  IN  '64  like  a  place  of  two  or  three  thousand  in 

habitants.      Must  be  one  of  the  pleasantest 
towns  in  Virginia.      Even  now,  dilapidated  fences,  all  broken  down, 


420  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

windows  out,  it  has  the  remains  of  much  beauty.  I  am  standing  on 
an  eminence  overlooking  the  town,  though  within  its  limits.  To  the 
west  the  long  Blue  Mountain  range  is  very  plain,  looks  quite  near, 
though  from  30  to  50  miles  distant,  with  some  gray  splashes  of  snow 
yet  visible.  The  show  is  varied  and  fascinating.  I  see  a  great  eagle 
up  there  in  the  air  sailing  with  pois'd  wings,  quite  low.  Squads  of 
red-legged  soldiers  are  drilling;  I  suppose  some  of  the  new  men  of 
the  Brooklyn  14-th;  they  march  off  presently  with  muskets  on  their 
shoulders.  In  another  place,  just  below  me,  are  some  soldiers  squar 
ing  off  logs  to  build  a  shanty  —  chopping  away,  and  the  noise  of  the 
axes  sounding  sharp.  I  hear  the  bellowing,  unmusical  screech  of  the 
mule.  I  mark  the  thin  blue  smoke  rising  from  camp  fires.  Just  below 
me  is  a  collection  of  hospital  tents,  with  a  yellow  flag  elevated  on  a 
stick,  and  moving  languidly  in  the  breeze.  Two  discharged  men 
(I  know  them  both)  are  just  leaving.  One  is  so  weak  he  can 
hardly  walk  ;  the  other  is  stronger,  and  carries  his  comrade's  musket. 
They  move  slowly  along  the  muddy  road  toward  the  depot.  The 
scenery  is  full  of  breadth,  and  spread  on  the  most  generous  scale 
(everywhere  in  Virginia  this  thought  filled  me.)  The  sights,  the 
scenes,  the  groups,  have  been  varied  and  picturesque  here  beyond 
description,  and  remain  so. 

I  heard  the  men  return  in  force  the  other  night  —  heard  the  shout 
ing,  and  got  up  and  went  out  to  hear  what  was  the  matter.  That 
night  scene  of  so  many  hundred  tramping  steadily  by,  through  the 
mud  (some  big  flaring  torches  of  pine  knots,)  I  shall  never  forget.  I 
like  to  go  to  the  paymaster's  tent,  and  watch  the  men  getting  paid  off. 
Some  have  furloughs,  and  start  at  once  for  home,  sometimes  amid 
great  chaffing  and  blarneying.  There  is  every  day  the  sound  of  the 
wood-chopping  axe,  and  the  plentiful  sight  of  negroes,  crows,  and 
mud.  I  note  large  droves  and  pens  of  cattle.  The  teamsters  have 
camps  of  their  own,  and  I  go  often  among  them.  The  officers  occa 
sionally  invite  me  to  dinner  or  supper  at  headquarters.  The  fare  is 
plain,  but  you  get  something  good  to  drink,  and  plenty  of  it.  Gen. 
Meade  is  absent ;  Sedgwick  is  in  command. 

PAYING  THE   iST         One  of  my  war  time  reminiscences  com- 

U.   S.   C.   T.  prises  the  quiet  side  scene  of  a  visit  I  made 

to    the    First    Regiment    U.    S.    Color' d 

Troops,  at  their  encampment,  and  on  the  occasion  of  their  first  paying 
off,  July  II,  1863.  Though  there  is  now  no  difference  of  opinion 
worth  mentioning,  there  was  a  powerful  opposition  to  enlisting  blacks 
during  the  earlier  years  of  the  secession  war.  Even  then,  however, 
they  had  their  champions.  "That  the  color' d  race,"  said  a  good 
authority,  '"is  capable  of  military  training  and  efficiency,  is  demon- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  421 

strated  by  the  testimony  of  numberless  witnesses,  and  by  the  eagerness 
display 'd  in  the  raising,  organizing,  and  drilling  of  African  troops. 
Few  white  regiments  make  a  better  appearance  on  parade  than  the 
First  and  Second  Louisiana  Native  Guards.  The  same  remark  is  true 
of  other  color'd  regiments.  At  Milliken's  Bend,  at  Vicksburg,  at 
Port  Hudson,  on  Morris  Island,  and  wherever  tested,  they  have 
exhibited  determin'd  bravery,  and  compel!' d  the  plaudits  alike  of  the 
thoughtful  and  thoughtless  soldiery.  During  the  siege  of  Port  Hudson 
the  question  was  often  ask'd  those  who  beheld  their  resolute  charges, 
how  the  'niggers'  behav'd  under  fire;  and  without  exception  the 
answer  was  complimentary  to  them.  *  O,  tip-top  ! '  « first-rate !  ' 
'bully!'  were  the  usual  replies."  But  I  did  not  start  out  to  argue 

the  case only  to  give  my  reminiscence  literally,  as  jotted  on  the  spot 

at  the  time. 

I  write  this  on  Mason's  (otherwise  Analostan)  island,  under  the 
fine  shade  trees  of  an  old  white  stucco  house,  with  big  rooms  ;  the 
white  stucco  house,  originally  a  fine  country  seat  (tradition  says  the 
famous  Virginia  Mason,  author  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  was  born 
here.)  I  reach' d  the  spot  from  my  Washington  quarters  by  ambu 
lance  up  Pennsylvania  avenue,  through  Georgetown,  across  the 
Aqueduct  bridge,  and  around  through  a  cut  and  winding  road,  with 
rocks  and  many  bad  gullies  not  lacking.  After  reaching  the  island, 
we  get  presently  in  the  midst  of  the  camp  of  the  1st  Regiment 
U.  S.  C.  T.  The  tents  look  clean  and  good  ;  indeed,  altogether, 
in  locality  especially,  the  pleasantest  camp  I  have  yet  seen.  The 
spot  is  umbrageous,  high  and  dry,  with  distant  sounds  of  the  city, 
and  the  puffing  steamers  of  the  Potomac,  up  to  Georgetown  and 
back  again.  Birds  are  singing  in  the  trees,  the  warmth  is  endurable 
here  in  this  moist  shade,  with  the  fragrance  and  freshness.  A  hun 
dred  rods  across  is  Georgetown.  The  river  between  is  swell' d  and 
muddy  from  the  late  rains  up  country.  So  quiet  here,  yet  full  of 
vitality,  all  around  in  the  far  distance  glimpses,  as  I  sweep  my  eye, 
of  hills,  verdure-clad,  and  with  plenteous  trees ;  right  where  I  sit, 
locust,  sassafras,  spice,  and  many  other  trees,  a  few  with  huge 
parasitic  vines  ;  just  at  hand  the  banks  sloping  to  the  river,  wild 
with  beautiful,  free  vegetation,  superb  weeds,  better,  in  their  natural 
growth  and  forms,  than  the  best  garden.  Lots  of  luxuriant  grape 
vines  and  trumpet  flowers ;  the  river  flowing  far  down  in  the 
distance. 

Now  the  paying  is  to  begin.  The  Major  (paymaster)  with  his 
clerk  seat  themselves  at  a  table  —  the  rolls  are  before  them  —  the 
money  box  is  open'd  —  there  are  packages  of  five,  ten,  twenty-five 
cent  pieces.  Here  comes  the  first  Company  (B),  some  82  men, 
all  blacks.  Certes,  we  cannot  find  fault  with  the  appearance  of  this 


422  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

crowd  —  negroes  though  they  be.  They  are  manly  enough,  bright 
enough,  look  as  if  they  had  the  soldier-stuff  in  them,  look  hardy, 
patient,  many  of  them  real  handsome  young  fellows.  The  paying, 
I  say,  has  begun.  The  men  are  march' d  up  in  close  proximity. 
The  clerk  calls  off  name  after  name,  and  each  walks  up,  receives  his 
money,  and  passes  along  out  of  the  way.  It  is  a  real  study,  both 
to  see  them  come  close,  and  to  see  them  pass  away,  stand  counting 
their  cash  —  (nearly  all  of  this  company  get  ten  dollars  and  three 
cents  each.)  The  clerk  calls  George  Washington.  That  distin 
guish' d  personage  steps  from  the  ranks,  in  the  shape  of  a  very  black 
man,  good  sized  and  shaped,  and  aged  about  30,  with  a  military 
mustache;  he  takes  his  "ten  three,"  and  goes  off  evidently  well 
pleas' d.  (There  are  about  a  dozen  Washingtons  in  the  company. 
Let  us  hope  they  will  do  honor  to  the  name. )  At  the  table,  how 
quickly  the  Major  handles  the  bills,  counts  without  trouble,  every 
thing  going  on  smoothly  and  quickly.  The  regiment  numbers  to-day 
about  1,000  men  (including  20  officers,  the  only  whites.) 

Now  another  company.  These  get  $5.36  each.  The  men  look 
well.  They,  too,  have  great  names ;  besides  the  Washingtons 
aforesaid,  John  Quincy  Adams,  Daniel  Webster,  Calhoun,  James 
Madison,  Alfred  Tennyson,  John  Brown,  Benj.  G.  Tucker,  Horace 
Greeley,  &c.  The  men  step  off  aside,  count  their  money  with  a 
pleas' d,  half- puzzled  look.  Occasionally,  but  not  often,  there  are 
some  thoroughly  African  physiognomies,  very  black  in  color,  large, 
protruding  lips,  low  forehead,  &c.  But  I  have  to  say  that  I  do  not 
see  one  utterly  revolting  face. 

Then  another  company,  each  man  of  this  getting  $10.03  a^so- 
The  pay  proceeds  very  rapidly  (the  calculation,  roll-signing,  &c., 
having  been  arranged  beforehand.)  Then  some  trouble.  One 
company,  by  the  rigid  rules  of  official  computation,  gets  only  23 
cents  each  man.  The  company  (K)  is  indignant,  and  after  two 
or  three  are  paid,  the  refusal  to  take  the  paltry  sum  is  universal,  and 
the  company  marches  off  to  quarters  unpaid. 

Another  company  (I)  gets  only  70  cents.  The  sullen,  lowering, 
disappointed  look  is  general.  Half  refuse  it  in  this  case.  Company 
G,  in  full  dress,  with  brass  scales  on  shoulders,  look'd,  perhaps,  as 
well  as  any  of  the  companies  —  the  men  had  an  unusually  alert  look. 

These,  then,  are  the  black  troops,  —  or  the  beginning  of  them. 
Well,  no  one  can  see  them,  even  under  these  circumstances  —  their 
military  career  in  its  novitiate — without  feeling  well  pleas' d  with 
them. 

As  we  enter1  d  the  island,  we  saw  scores  at  a  little  distance,  bathing, 
washing  their  clothes,  &c.  The  officers,  as  far  as  looks  go,  have  a 
fine  appearance,  have  good  faces,  and  the  air  military.  Altogether  it 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  423 

is  a  significant  show,  and  brings  up  some  "  abolition  "  thoughts.  The 
scene,  the  porch  of  an  Old  Virginia  slave-owner's  house,  the  Poto 
mac  rippling  near,  the  Capitol  just  down  three  or  four  miles  there, 
seen  through  the  pleasant  blue  haze  of  this  July  day. 

After  a  couple  of  hours  I  get  tired,  and  go  off  for  a  ramble.  I 
write  these  concluding  lines  on  a  rock,  under  the  shade  of  a  tree  on 
the  banks  of  the  island.  It  is  solitary  here,  the  birds  singing,  the 
sluggish  muddy-yellow  waters  pouring  down  from  the  late  rains  of  the 
upper  Potomac ;  the  green  heights  on  the  south  side  of  the  river  before 
me.  The  single  cannon  from  a  neighboring  fort  has  just  been  fired,  to 
signal  high  noon.  I  have  walk'd  all  around  Analostan,  enjoying  its 
luxuriant  wildness,  and  stopt  in  this  solitary  spot.  A  water  snake 
wriggles  down  the  bank,  disturb' d,  into  the  water.  The  bank  near 
by  is  fringed  with  a  dense  growth  of  shrubbery,  vines,  &c. 


FIVE    THOUSAND    POEMS 


THERE  have  been  collected  in  a  cluster  nearly  five  thousand  big  and 
little  American  poems  —  all  that  diligent  and  long-continued  research 
could  lay  hands  on!  The  author  of  'Old  Grimes  is  Dead*  com 
menced  it,  more  than  fifty  years  ago;  then  the  cluster  was  pass'd  on 
and  accumulated  by  C.  F.  Harris;  then  further  pass'd  on  and  added 
to  by  the  late  Senator  Anthony,  from  whom  the  whole  collection  has 
been  bequeath' d  to  Brown  University.  A  catalogue  (such  as  it  is) 
has  been  made  and  published  of  these  five  thousand  poems  —  and  is 
probably  the  most  curious  and  suggestive  part  of  the  whole  affair.  At 
any  rate  it  has  led  me  to  some  abstract  reflection  like  the  following. 

I  should  like,  for  myself,  to  put  on  record  my  devout  acknowledg 
ment  not  only  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  past,  but  of  the  benefit 
of  all  poets,  past  and  present,  and  of  all  poetic  utterance  —  in  its 
entirety  the  dominant  moral  factor  of  humanity's  progress.  In  view 
of  that  progress,  and  of  evolution,  the  religious  and  esthetic  elements, 
the  distinctive  and  most  important  of  any,  seem  to  me  more  indebted 
to  poetry  than  to  all  other  means  and  influences  combined.  In  a  very 
profound  sense  religion  is  the  poetry  of  humanity.  Then  the  points  of 
union  and  rapport  among  all  the  poems  and  poets  of  the  world,  how 
ever  wide  their  separations  of  time  and  place  and  theme,  are  much 
more  numerous  and  weighty  than  the  points  of  contrast.  Without 
relation  as  they  may  seem  at  first  sight,  the  whole  earth's  poets  and 
poetry  —  en  masse  —  the  Oriental,  the  Greek,  and  what  there  is  of 
Roman  —  the  oldest  myths  —  the  interminable  ballad-romances  of  the 
Middle  Ages  —  the  hymns  and  psalms  of  worship  —  the  epics,  plays, 
swarms  of  lyrics  of  the  British  Islands,  or  the  Teutonic  old  or  new  — 
or  modern  French — or  what  there  is  in  America,  Bryant's,  for 
instance,  or  Whittier's  or  Longfellow's  —  the  verse  of  all  tongues  and 
ages,  all  forms,  all  subjects,  from  primitive  times  to  our  own  day 
inclusive  —  really  combine  in  one  aggregate  and  electric  globe  or 
universe,  with  all  its  numberless  parts  and  radiations  held  together  by 
a  common  centre  or  verteber.  To  repeat  it,  all  poetry  thus  has  (to 
the  point  of  view  comprehensive  enough)  more  features  of  resemblance 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  425 

than  difference,  and  becomes  essentially,  like  the  planetary  globe  itself, 
compact  and  orbic  and  whole.      Nature  seems  to  sow  countless  seeds 
-makes  incessant  crude  attempts — thankful  to  get  now  and  then, 
even  at  rare  and  long  intervals,  something  approximately  good. 


THE   OLD  BOWERY 

A  Reminiscence  of  New   York  Plays  and  Acting  Fifty  Tears  Ago 


IN  an  article  not  long  since,  "Mrs.  Siddons  as  Lady  Macbeth," 
in  "The  Nineteenth  Century,"  after  describing  the  bitter  regretfulness 
to  mankind  from  the  loss  of  those  first-class  poems;  temples,  pictures, 
gone  and  vanished  from  any  record  of  men,  the  writer  (Fleeming 
Jenkin)  continues  : 

If  this  be  our  feeling  as  to  the  more  durable  works  of  art,  what  shall  we 
say  of  those  triumphs  which,  by  their  very  nature,  last  no  longer  than  the 
action  which  creates  them  —  the  triumphs  of  the  orator,  the  singer,  or  the 
actor?  There  is  an  anodyne  in  the  words,  "must  be  so,"  " inevitable," 
and  there  is  even  some  absurdity  in  longing  for  the  impossible.  This 
anodyne  and  our  sense  of  humor  temper  the  unhappiness  we  feel  when, 
after  hearing  some  great  performance,  we  leave  the  theatre  and  think, 
"Well,  this  great  thing  has  been,  and  all  that  is  now  left  of  it  is  the  feeble 
print  upon  my  brain,  the  little  thrill  which  memory  will  send  along  my 
nerves,  mine  and  my  neighbors;  as  we  live  longer  the  print  and  thrill  must 
be  feebler,  and  when  we  pass  away  the  impress  of  the  great  artist  will 
vanish  from  the  world."  The  regret  that  a  great  art  should  in  its  nature 
be  transitory,  explains  the  lively  interest  which  many  feel  in  reading  anec 
dotes  or  descriptions  of  a  great  actor. 

All  this  is  emphatically  my  own  feeling  and  reminiscence  about  the 
best  dramatic  and  lyric  artists  I  have  seen  in  bygone  days  —  for  in 
stance,  Marietta  Alboni,  the  elder  Booth,  Forrest,  the  tenor  Bettini, 
the  baritone  Badiali,  "  old  man  Clarke"  —  (I  could  write  a  whole 
paper  on  the  latter' s  peerless  rendering  of  the  Ghost  in  "Hamlet" 
at  the  Park,  when  I  was  a  young  fellow)  —  an  actor  named  Ranger, 
who  appear' d  in  America  forty  years  ago  in  genre  characters  ;  Henry 
Placide,  and  many  others.  But  I  will  make  a  few  memoranda  at 
least  of  the  best  one  I  knew. 

For  the  elderly  New  Yorker  of  to-day,  perhaps,  nothing  were  more 
likely  to  start  up  memories  of  his  early  manhood  than  the  mention  of 
the  Bowery  and  the  elder  Booth.  At  the  date  given,  the  more  stylish 
and  select  theatre  (prices,  50  cents  pit,  $i  boxes)  was  "The  Park," 
a  large  and  well-appointed  house  on  Park  Row,  opposite  the  present 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  427 

Post-office.  English  opera  and  the  old  comedies  were  often  given  in 
capital  style  ;  the  principal  foreign  stars  appear*  d  here,  with  Italian 
opera  at  wide  intervals.  The  Park  held  a  large  part  in  my  boyhood's 
and  young  manhood's  life.  Here  I  heard  the  English  actor,  Anderson, 
in  "  Charles  de  Moor,"  and  in  the  fine  part  of  "  Gisippus."  Here 
I  heard  Fanny  Kemble,  Charlotte  Cushman,  the  Seguins,  Daddy  Rice, 
Hackett  as  Falstaff,  Nimrod  Wildfire,  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  in  his 
Yankee  characters.  (See  pages  19,  20,  "  Specimen  Days.")  It  was 
here  (some  years  later  than  the  date  in  the  headline)  I  also  heard 
Mario  many  times,  and  at  his  best.  In  such  parts  as  Gennaro,  in 
"  Lucrezia  Borgia,"  he  was  inimitable — the  sweetest  of  voices,  a  pure 
tenor,  of  considerable  compass  and  respectable  power.  His  wife,  Grisi, 
was  with  him,  no  longer  first-class  or  young  —  a  fine  Norma,  though, 
to  the  last. 

Perhaps  my  dearest  amusement  reminiscences  are  those  musical  ones. 
I  doubt  if  ever  the  senses  and  emotions  of  the  future  will  be  thrill' d 
as  were  the  auditors  of  a  generation  ago  by  the  deep  passion  of  Alboni's 
contralto  (at  the  Broadway  Theatre,  south  side,  near  Pearl  street)  - 
or  by  the  trumpet  notes  of  Badiali's  baritone,  or  Bettini's  pensive  and 
incomparable  tenor  in  Fernando  in  "  Favorita,"  or  Marini's  bass  in 
<«  Faliero,"  among  the  Havana  troupe,  Castle  Garden. 

But  getting  back  more  specifically  to  the  date  and  theme  I  started 
from  —  the  heavy  tragedy  business   prevail' d   more  decidedly  at  the 
Bowery   Theatre,   where  Booth   and  Forrest  were  frequently  to   be 
heard.      Though  Booth  pere,  then  in  his  prime,  ranging  in  age  from 
40  to  44  years  (he  was  born  in  1796,)  was  the  loyal  child  and  con- 
tinuer  of  the  traditions  of  orthodox  English  play-acting,  he  stood  out 
'«  himself  alone  "  in  many  respects  beyond  any  of  his  kind  on  record, 
and  with  effects  and  ways  that  broke  through  all  rules  and  all  tradi 
tions.      He  has  been  well  describ'd  as  an  actor  "whose  instant  and 
tremendous  concentration  of  passion  in  his  delineations  overwhelm' d 
his  audience,  and  wrought  into  it  such  enthusiasm  that  it  partook  of 
the  fever  of  inspiration  surging  through  his  own  veins."      He  seems  to 
have  been  of  beautiful  private  character,  very  honorable,  affectionate, 
good-natured,   no   arrogance,   glad  to  give  the  other  actors  the  best 
chances.      He  knew  all  stage  points  thoroughly,  and  curiously  ignored 
the  mere  dignities.      I  once  talk'd  with  a  man  who  had  seen  him  do 
the  Second  Actor  in  the  mock  play  to  Charles  Kean's  Hamlet  in  Bal 
timore.      He  was  a  marvellous  linguist.      He  play'd  Shylock  once  in 
London,  giving  the  dialogue  in  Hebrew,  and  in  New  Orleans  Oreste 
(Racine's  "  Andromaque  ")  in  French.      One  trait  of  his  habits,  I 
have  heard,  was  strict  vegetarianism.      He  was  exceptionally  kind  to 
the  brute  creation.      Every  once  in  a  while  he  would  make  a  break  for 
solitude  or  wild  freedom,  sometimes  for  a  few  hours,  sometimes  for 


428  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

days.  (He  illustrated  Plato's  rule  that  to  the  forming  an  artist  of  the 
very  highest  rank  a  dash  of  insanity  or  what  the  world  calls  insanity  is 
indispensable.)  He  was  a  small-sized  man  —  yet  sharp  observers 
noticed  that  however  crowded  the  stage  might  be  in  certain  scenes, 
Booth  never  seem'd  overtopt  or  hidden.  He  was  singularly  sponta 
neous  and  fluctuating  ;  in  the  same  part  each  rendering  differ' d  from 
any  and  all  others.  He  had  no  stereotyped  positions  and  made  no 
arbitrary  requirements  on  his  fellow-performers. 

As  is  well  known  to  old  play-goers,  Booth's  most  effective  part  was 
Richard  III.      Either  that,  or  lago,  or  Shylock,  or  Pescara  in  "The 
Apostate,"  was  sure  to  draw  a  crowded  house.      (Remember  heavy 
pieces  were  much  more  in  demand  those  days  than  now. )      He  was 
also  unapproachably  grand  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  in  "A  New  Way 
to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  and  the  principal  character  in  "The  Iron  Chest." 
In  any  portraiture  of  Booth,  those  years,  the  Bowery  Theatre,  with 
its  leading  lights,  and  the  lessee  and  manager,  Thomas  Hamblin,  can 
not  be  left  out.      It  was  at  the  Bowery  I  first  saw  Edwin  Forrest  (the 
play  was  John  Howard  Payne's  "Brutus,  or  the  Fall  of  Tarquin," 
and  it    affected  me  for  weeks  ;    or  rather  I  might    say  permanently 
filter' d  into   my  whole  nature,)  then  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame  and 
ability.      Sometimes  (perhaps  a  veteran's  benefit  night,)    the  Bowery 
would  group  together  five  or  six  of  the  first-class  actors  of  those  days 
—  Booth,  Forrest,  Cooper,  Hamblin,  and  John  R.  Scott,  for  instance. 
At  that  time  and  here   George  Jones    ("Count   Joannes")   was  a 
young,  handsome  actor,  and  quite  a  favorite.      I  remember  seeing  him 
in  the  title  role  in  "Julius  Caesar,"  and  a  capital  performance  it  was. 
To  return  specially  to  the  manager.     Thomas  Hamblin  made  a  first- 
rate  foil  to  Booth,  and  was  frequently  cast  with  him.     He  had  a  large, 
shapely,  imposing  presence,  and  dark  and  flashing  eyes.      I  remember 
well  his  rendering  of  the  main  role  in  Maturin's  "Bertram,  or  the 
Castle  of  St.  Aldobrand."     But  I  thought  Tom  Hamblin' s  best  act 
ing  was  in  the  comparatively  minor  part  of  Faulconbridge  in  "  King 
John"  — he  himself  evidently  revell'd  in  the  part,  and  took  away  the 
house's  applause  from  young  Kean  (the  King)  and  Ellen  Tree  (Con 
stance,)    and  everybody  else  on  the  stage  —  some  time  afterward  at 
the  Park.      Some  of  the  Bowery  actresses  were  remarkably  good.      I 
remember  Mrs.  Pritchard  in  "Tour  de  Nesle,"  and  Mrs.  McClure  in 
"Fatal   Curiosity,"    and  as  Millwood  in  "George  Barnwell."      (I 
wonder  what  old  fellow  reading  these  lines  will  recall  the  fine  comedi 
etta  of  "  The  Youth  That  Never  Saw  a  Woman,"  and  the  jolly  act 
ing  in  it  of  Mrs.  Herring  and  old  Gates.) 

The  Bowery,  now  and  then,  was  the  place,  too,  for  spectacular 
pieces,  such  as  "  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,"  "  The  Lion-Doom* d  " 
and  the  yet  undying  "Mazeppa."  At  one  time  "Jonathan  Brad- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  429 

ford,  or  the  Murder  at  the  Roadside  Inn,"  had  a  long  and  crowded 
run  ;  John  Sefton  and  his  brother  William  acted  in  it.  I  remember 
well  the  Frenchwoman  Celeste,  a  splendid  pantomimist,  and  her  emo 
tional  "Wept  of  the  Wishton-Wish."  But  certainly  the  main 
"reason  for  being"  of  the  Bowery  Theatre  those  years  was  to  fur 
nish  the  public  with  Forrest's  and  Booth's  performances  —  the  latter 
having  a  popularity  and  circles  of  enthusiastic  admirers  and  critics 
fully  equal  to  the  former  —  though  people  were  divided  as  always. 
For  some  reason  or  other,  neither  Forrest  nor  Booth  would  accept 
engagements  at  the  more  fashionable  theatre,  the  Park.  And  it  is  a 
curious  reminiscence,  but  a  true  one,  that  both  these  great  actors  and 
their  performances  were  taboo'd  by  "polite  society"  in  New  York 
and  Boston  at  the  time  —  probably  as  being  too  robustuous.  But  no 
such  scruples  affected  the  Bowery. 

Recalling  from  that  period  the  occasion  of  either  Forrest  or  Booth, 
any  good  night  at  the  old  Bowery,  pack'd  from  ceiling  to  pit  with  its 
audience  mainly  of  alert,  well-dress' d,  full-blooded  young  and  middle- 
aged  men,  the  best  average  of  American-born  mechanics  —  the  emo 
tional  nature  of  the  whole  mass  arous'd  by  the  power  and  magnetism 
of  as  mighty  mimes  as  ever  trod  the  stage  —  the  whole  crowded 
auditorium,  and  what  seeth'd  in  it,  and  flush' d  from  its  faces  and  eyes, 
to  me  as  much  a  part  of  the  show  as  any  —  bursting  forth  in  one  of 
those  long-kept-up  tempests  of  hand-clapping  peculiar  to  the  Bowery 

—  no  dainty  kid-glove  business,  but  electric  force  and  muscle  from 
perhaps  2,000  full-sinew' d    men — (the    inimitable    and    chromatic 
tempest  of  one   of  those  ovations  to  Edwin  Forrest,  welcoming  him 
back  after  an  absence,  comes  up  to  me  this  moment)  —  Such  sounds 
and   scenes  as    here    resumed   will   surely    afford   to  many  old   New 
Yorkers  some  fruitful  recollections. 

I  can  yet  remember  (for  I  always  scann'd  an  audience  as  rigidly  as 
a  play)  the  faces  of  the  leading  authors,  poets,  editors,  of  those  times 

—  Fenimore  Cooper,  Bryant,  Paulding,  Irving,  Charles  King,  Watson 
Webb,  N.  P.  Willis,  Hoffman,  Halleck,  Mumford,  Morris,  Leggett, 
L.  G.  Clarke,  R.  A.  Locke  and  others,  occasionally  peering  from  the 
first  tier  boxes;  and  even  the  great   National   Eminences,    Presidents 
Adams,  Jackson,  Van  Buren  and  Tyler,  all  made  short  visits  there  on 
their  Eastern  tours. 

Awhile  after  1840  the  character  of  the  Bowery  as  hitherto  de 
scribed  completely  changed.  Cheap  prices  and  vulgar  programmes 
came  in.  People  who  of  after  years  saw  the  pandemonium  of  the 
pit  and  the  doings  on  the  boards  must  not  gauge  by  them  the  times 
and  characters  I  am  describing.  Not  but  what  there  was  more  or 
less  rankness  in  the  crowd  even  then.  For  types  of  sectional  New 
York  those  days  —  the  streets  East  of  the  Bowery,  that  intersect 


430  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

Division,  Grand,  and  up  to  Third  avenue  —  types  that  never  found 
their  Dickens,  or  Hogarth,  or  Balzac,  and  have  pass'd  away  unpor- 
traitured  —  the  young  ship-builders,  cartmen,  butchers,  firemen  (the 
old-time  "soap-lock"  or  exaggerated  "Mose"  or  "  Sikesey,"  of 
Chanfrau's  plays,)  they,  too,  were  always  to  be  seen  in  these 
audiences,  racy  of  the  East  river  and  the  Dry  Dock.  Slang,  wit, 
occasional  shirt  sleeves,  and  a  picturesque  freedom  of  looks  and  man 
ners,  with  a  rude  good-nature  and  restless  movement,  were  generally 
noticeable.  Yet  there  never  were  audiences  that  paid  a  good  actor 
or  an  interesting  play  the  compliment  of  more  sustain' d  attention  or 
quicker  rapport.  Then  at  times  came  the  exceptionally  decorous 
and  intellectual  congregations  I  have  hinted  it ;  for  the  Bowery 
really  furnish' d  plays  and  players  you  could  get  nowhere  else. 
Notably,  Booth  always  drew  the  best  hearers  ;  and  to  a  specimen 
of  his  acting  I  will  now  attend  in  some  detail. 

I  happen' d  to  see  what  has  been  reckon' d  by  experts  one  of  the 
most  marvellous  pieces  of  histrionism  ever  known.  It  must  have 
been  about  1834  or  '35.  A  favorite  comedian  and  actress  at  the 
Bowery,  Thomas  Flynn  and  his  wife,  were  to  have  a  joint  benefit, 
and,  securing  Booth  for  Richard,  advertised  the  fact  many  days 
beforehand.  The  house  fill'd  early  from  top  to  bottom.  There 
was  some  uneasiness  behind  the  scenes,  for  the  afternoon  arrived,  and 
Booth  had  not  come  from  down  in  Maryland,  where  he  lived. 
However,  a  few  minutes  before  ringing-up  time  he  made  his  appear 
ance  in  lively  condition. 

After  a  one- act  farce  over,  as  contrast  and  prelude,  the  curtain 
rising  for  the  tragedy,  I  can,  from  my  good  seat  in  the  pit,  pretty 
well  front,  see  again  Booth's  quiet  entrance  from  the  side,  as,  with 
head  bent,  he  slowly  and  in  silence,  (amid  the  tempest  of  boisterous 
hand-clapping,)  walks  down  the  stage  to  the  footlights  with  that 
peculiar  and  abstracted  gesture,  musingly  kicking  his  sword,  which 
he  holds  off  from  him  by  its  sash.  Though  fifty  years  have  pass'd 
since  then,  I  can  hear  the  clank,  and  feel  the  perfect  following  hush 
of  perhaps  three  thousand  people  waiting.  (I  never  saw  an  actor 
who  could  make  more  of  the  said  hush  or  wait,  and  hold  the  audience 
in  an  indescribable,  half-delicious,  half- irritating  suspense.)  And  so 
throughout  the  entire  play,  all  parts,  voice,  atmosphere,  magnetism, 
from 

"Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent," 

to  the  closing  death  fight  with  Richmond,  were  of  the  finest  and 
grandest.  The  latter  character  was  play'  d  hy  a  stalwart  young  fellow 
named  Ingersoll.  Indeed,  all  the  renderings  were  wonderfully  good. 
But  the  great  spell  cast  upon  the  mass  of  hearers  came  from  Booth. 
Especially  was  the  dream  scene  very  impressive.  A  shudder  went 


NOVEMBER   BOUGHS  431 

through    every    nervous    system    in    the    audience ;     it    certainly    did 
through  mine. 

Without  question  Booth  was  royal  heir  and  legitimate  representative 
of  the  Garrick-Kemble-Siddons  dramatic  traditions ;  but  he  vitalized 
and  gave  an  unnamable  race  to  those  traditions  with  his  own  electric 
personal  idiosyncrasy.  (As  in  all  art-utterance  it  was  the  subtle  and 
powerful  something  special  to  the  individual  that  really  conquer'd.) 

To  me,  too,  Booth  stands  for  much  else  besides  theatricals.  I 
consider  that  my  seeing  the  man  those  years  glimps'd  for  me,  beyond 
all  else,  that  inner  spirit  and  form  —  the  unquestionable  charm  and 
vivacity,  but  intrinsic  sophistication  and  artificiality  —  crystallizing 
rapidly  upon  the  English  stage  and  literature  at  and  after  Shakspere's 
time,  and  coming  on  accumulatively  through  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  to  the  beginning,  fifty  or  forty  years  ago,  of 
those  disintegrating,  decomposing  processes  now  authoritatively  going 
on.  Yes;  although  Booth  must  be  class' d  in  that  antique,  almost 
extinct  school,  inflated,  stagy,  rendering  Shakspere  (perhaps  inev 
itably,  appropriately)  from  the  growth  of  arbitrary  and  often 
cockney  conventions,  his  genius  was  to  me  one  of  the  grandest 
revelations  of  my  life,  a  lesson  of  artistic  expression.  The  words 
fire,  energy,  abandon,  found  in  him  unprecedented  meanings.  I 
never  heard  a  speaker  or  actor  who  could  give  such  a  sting  to  hauteur 
or  the  taunt.  I  never  heard  from  any  other  the  charm  of  unswerv 
ingly  perfect  vocalization  without  trenching  at  all  on  mere  melody, 
the  province  of  music. 

So  much  for  a  Thespian  temple  of  New  York  fifty  years  since, 
where  "sceptred  tragedy  went  trailing  by"  under  the  gaze  of  the 
Dry  Dock  youth,  and  both  players  and  auditors  were  of  a  character 
and  like  we  shall  never  see  again.  And  so  much  for  the  grandest 
histrion  of  modern  times,  as  near  as  I  can  deliberately  judge  (and 
the  phrenologists  put  my  "caution"  at  7) — grander,  I  believe, 
than  Kean  in  the  expression  of  electric  passion,  the  prime  eligibility 
of  the  tragic  artist.  For  though  those  brilliant  years  had  many  fine 
and  even  magnificent  actors,  undoubtedly  at  Booth's  death  (in  1852) 
went  the  last  and  by  far  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all. 


29 


NOTES    TO     LATE     ENG 
LISH    BOOKS 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IF  you  will  only  take  the  following  pages, 
READER  IN  THE  as  you  do  some  long  and  gossippy  letter 

BRITISH  ISLANDS. —  written  for  you  by  a  relative  or  friend 
"Specimen  Days  in  America,"  traveling  through  distant  scenes  and  inci- 
London  Edition,  June,  188?  dents,  and  jotting  them  down  lazily  and 

informally,    but    ever    veraciously    (with 

occasional  diversions  of  critical  thought  about  somebody  or  some 
thing,)  it  might  remove  all  formal  or  literary  impediments  at 
at  once,  and  bring  you  and  me  close  together  in  the  spirit  in 
which  the  jottings  were  collated  to  be  read.  You  have  had,  and 
have,  plenty  of  public  events  and  facts  and  general  statistics  of  America ; 
—  in  the  following  book  is  a  common  individual  New  World  private 
life,  its  birth  and  growth,  its  struggles  for  a  living,  its  goings  and 
comings  and  observations  (or  representative  portions  of  them)  amid 
the  United  States  of  America  the  last  thirty  or  forty  years,  with  their 
varied  war  and  peace,  their  local  coloring,  the  unavoidable  egotism, 
and  the  lights  and  shades  and  sights  and  joys  and  pains  and  sympathies 
common  to  humanity.  Further  introductory  light  may  be  found  in  the 
paragraph,  "A  Happy  Hour's  Command,"  and  the  bottom  note 
belonging  to  it,  at  the  beginning  of  the  book.  I  have  said  in  the  text 
that  if  I  were  required  to  give  good  reason-for-being  of  "  Specimen 
Days,"  I  should  be  unable  to  do  so.  Let  me  fondly  hope  that  it  has 
at  least  the  reason  and  excuse  of  such  off-hand  gossippy  letter  as  just 
alluded  to,  portraying  American  life-sights  and  incidents  as  they  actually 
occurred  —  their  presentation,  making  additions  as  far  as  it  goes,  to  the 
simple  experience  and  association  of  your  soul,  from  a  comrade  soul ;  — 
and  that  also,  in  the  volume,  as  below  any  page  of  mine,  anywhere, 
ever  remains,  for  seen  or  unseen  basis-phrase,  GOOD-WILL  BETWEEN 

THE  COMMON  PEOPLE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  433 

ADDITIONAL  As    I    write    these    lines   I  still   continue 

NOTE,    1887  living  in  Camden,  New  Jersey,  America. 

To  English  Edition  "Specimen      Coming  this  way  from  Washington  city, 

on  my  road  to  the  sea-shore  (and  a  tem 
porary  rest,  as  I  supposed)  in   the  early 

summer  of  1873,  I  broke  down  disabled,  and  have  dwelt  here,  as  my 
central  residence,  all  the  time  since  —  almost  1 4  years.  In  the  pre 
ceding  pages  I  have  described  how,  during  those  years,  I  partially 
recuperated  (in  1876)  from  my  worst  paralysis  by  going  down  to 
Timber  creek,  living  close  to  Nature,  and  domiciling  with  my  dear 
friends  George  and  Susan  Stafford.  From  1877  or  '8  to  '83  or  '4 
I  was  well  enough  to  travel  around,  considerably — journey' d  west 
ward  to  Kansas,  leisurely  exploring  the  Prairies,  and  on  to  Denver 
and  the  Rocky  Mountains;  another  time  north  to  Canada,  where  I 
spent  most  of  the  summer  with  my  friend  Dr.  Bucke,  and  jaunted 
along  the  great  lakes,  and  the  St.  Lawrence  and  Saguenay  rivers  ; 
another  time  to  Boston,  to  properly  print  the  final  edition  of  my  poems 
(I  was  there  over  two  months,  and  had  a  "good  time.")  I  have  so 
brought  out  the  completed  "Leaves  of  Grass"  during  this  period  ; 
also  "Specimen  Days,"  of  which  the  foregoing  is  a  transcript; 
collected  and  re-edited  the  "Democratic  Vistas"  cluster  (see  com 
panion  volume  to  the  present)  —  commemorated  Abraham  Lincoln's 
death,  on  the  successive  anniversaries  of  its  occurrence,  by  delivering 
my  lecture  on  it  ten  or  twelve  times;  and  "put  in,"  through  many  a 
month  and  season,  the  aimless  and  resultless  ways  of  most  human 
lives. 

Thus  the  last  14  years  have  pass'd.  At  present  (end-days  of 
March,  1887 — I  am  nigh  entering  my  69th  year)  I  find  myself 
continuing  on  here,  quite  dilapidated  and  even  wreck* d  bodily  from 
the  paralysis,  &c.  —  but  in  good  heart  (to  use  a  Long  Island  country 
phrase,)  and  with  about  the  same  mentality  as  ever.  The  worst  of 
it  is,  I  have  been  growing  feebler  quite  rapidly  for  a  year,  and  now 
can't  walk  around —  hardly  from  one  room  to  the  next.  I  am  forced 
to  stay  in-doors  and  in  my  big  chair  nearly  all  the  time.  We  have 
had  a  sharp,  dreary  winter  too,  and  it  has  pinch'd  me.  I  am  alone 
most  of  the  time;  every  week,  indeed  almost  every  day,  write  some 
—  reminiscences,  essays,  sketches,  for  the  magazines;  and  read,  or 
rather  I  should  say  dawdle  over  books  and  papers  a  good  deal — spend 
half  the  day  at  that. 

Nor  can  I  finish  this  note  without  putting  on  record — wafting  over 
i  from  hence  —  my  deepest  thanks  to  certain  friends  and  helpers  (I 
would  specify  them  all  and  each  by  name,  but  imperative  reasons,  out 
side  of  my  own  wishes,  forbid,)  in  the  British  Islands,  as  well  as  in 
America.  Dear,  even  in  the  abstract,  is  such  flattering  unction  always 


434  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

no  doubt  to  the  soul  !  Nigher  still,  if  possible,  I  myself  have  been, 
and  am  to-day  indebted  to  such  help  for  my  very  sustenance,  clothing, 
shelter,  and  continuity.  And  I  would  not  go  to  the  grave  without 
briefly,  but  plainly,  as  I  here  do,  acknowledging  —  may  I  not  say  even 
glorying  in  it  ? 

PREFACE  TO  Mainly  I  think  I  should  base  the  request 

"DEMOCRATIC  to  weigh  the  following  pages  on  the 

VISTAS"  WITH  assumption  that  they  present,  however  in- 

OTHER  PAPERS —  directly,  some  views  of  the  West  and 
English  Edition  Modern,  or  of  a  distinctly  western  and 

modern  (American)  tendency,  about  cer 
tain  matters.  Then,  too,  the  pages  include  (by  attempting  to  illustrate 
it,)  a  theory  herein  immediately  mentioned.  For  another  and  different 
point  of  the  issue,  the  Enlightenment,  Democracy  and  Fair-show  of  the 
bulk,  the  common  people  of  America  (from  sources  representing  not 
only  the  British  Islands,  but  all  the  world,)  means,  at  least,  eligibility 
to  Enlightenment,  Democracy  and  Fair-show  for  the  bulk,  the  com 
mon  people  of  all  civilized  nations. 

That  positively  "the  dry  land  has  appeared,"  at  any  rate,  is  an 
important  fact. 

America  is  really  the  great  test  or  trial  case  for  all  the  problems 
and  promises  and  speculations  of  humanity,  and  of  the  past  and 
present. 

I  say,  too,  we  *  are  not  to  look  so  much  to  changes,  ameliorations, 
and  adaptations  in  Politics  as  to  those  of  Literature  and  (thence) 
domestic  Sociology.  I  have  accordingly  in  the  following  melange 
introduced  many  themes  besides  political  ones. 

Several  of  the  pieces  are  ostensibly  in  explanation  of  my  own  writ 
ings  ;  but  in  that  very  process  they  best  include  and  set  forth  their 
side  of  principles  and  generalities  pressing  vehemently  for  consideration 
our  age. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  is  on  the  atmosphere  they  are  born  in,  and,  (1 
hope)  give  out,  more  than  any  specific  piece  or  trait,  I  would  care  to 


rest. 


I  think  Literature  —  a  new,  superb,  democratic  literature — is  to  be 
the  medicine  and  lever,  and  (with  Art)  the  chief  influence  in  modern 
civilization.  I  have  myself  not  so  much  made  a  dead  set  at  this  theory, 
or  attempted  to  present  it  directly,  as  admitted  it  to  color  and  some 
times  dominate  what  I  had  to  say.  In  both  Europe  and  America  we 

*  We  who,  in  many  departments,  ways,  make  the  building  up  of  the  masses, 
by  building  up  grand  individuals,  our  shibboleth  :  and  in  brief  that  is  the  mJtf- 
row  of  this  book. 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  435 

have  serried  phalanxes  who  promulge  and  defend  the  political  claims : 
I  go  for  an  equal  force  to  uphold  the  other.          WALT  WHITMAN. 
CAMDEN,  NEW  JERSEY,  April,  1888. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 


GLAD  am  I  to  give  —  were  anything  better  lacking  —  even  the  most 
brief  and  shorn  testimony  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  Everything  I  heard 
about  him  authentically,  and  every  time  I  saw  him  (and  it  was  my 
fortune  through  1862  to  '65  to  see,  or  pass  a  word  with,  or  watch 
him,  personally,  perhaps  twenty  or  thirty  times,)  added  to  and  an 
neal' d  my  respect  and  love  at  the  moment.  And  as  I  dwell  on  what 
I  myself  heard  or  saw  of  the  mighty  Westerner,  and  blend  it  with  the 
history  and  literature  of  my  age,  and  of  what  I  can  get  of  all  ages, 
and  conclude  it  with  his  death,  it  seems  like  some  tragic  play,  superior 
to  all  else  I  know  —  vaster  and  fierier  and  more  convulsionary,  for 
this  America  of  ours,  than  Eschylus  or  Shakspere  ever  drew  for 
Athens  or  for  England.  And  then  the  Moral  permeating,  underlying 
all !  the  Lesson  that  none  so  remote  —  none  so  illiterate  —  no  age,  no 
class  —  but  may  directly  or  indirectly  read  ! 

Abraham  Lincoln's  was  really  one  of  those  characters,  the  best  of 
which  is  the  result  of  long  trains  of  cause  and  effect  —  needing  a  cer 
tain  spaciousness  of  time,  and  perhaps  even  remoteness,  to  properly 
enclose  them  —  having  unequal' d  influence  on  the  shaping  of  this 
Republic  (and  therefore  the  world)  as  to-day,  and  then  far  more 
important  in  the  future.  Thus  the  time  has  by  no  means  yet  come 
for  a  thorough  measurement  of  him.  Nevertheless,  we  who  live  in 
his  era  —  who  have  seen  him,  and  heard  him,  face  to  face,  and  are  in 
the  midst  of,  or  just  parting  from,  the  strong  and  strange  events  which 
he  and  we  have  had  to  do  with  —  can  in  some  respects  bear  valuable, 
perhaps  indispensable  testimony  concerning  him. 

I  should  first  like  to  give  a  very  fair  and  characteristic  likeness  of 
Lincoln,  as  I  saw  him  and  watch' d  him  one  afternoon  in  Washington, 
for  nearly  half  an  hour,  not  long  before  his  death.  It  was  as  he  stood 
on  the  balcony  of  the  National  Hotel,  Pennsylvania  avenue,  making  a 
short  speech  to  the  crowd  in  front,  on  the  occasion  either  of  a  set  of 
new  colors  presented  to  a  famous  Illinois  regiment,  or  of  the  daring 
capture,  by  the  Western  men,  of  some  flags  from  "  the  enemy," 
(which  latter  phrase,  by  the  by,  was  not  used  by  him  at  all  in  his 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  437 

remarks.)  How  the  picture  happen' d  to  be  made  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  bought  it  a  few  days  afterward  in  Washington,  and  it  was  en- 
dors' d  by  every  one  to  whom  I  show'd  it.  Though  hundreds  of 
portraits  have  been  made,  by  painters  and  photographers,  (many  to 
pass  on,  by  copies,  to  future  times,)  I  have  never  seen  one  yet  that  in 
my  opinion  deserv'd  to  be  called  a  perfectly  good  likeness;  nor  do  I 
believe  there  is  really  such  a  one  in  existence.  May  I  not  say  too, 
that,  as  there  is  no  entirely  competent  and  emblematic  likeness  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  in  picture  or  statue,  there  is  not  —  perhaps  cannot 
be  —  any  fully  appropriate  literary  statement  or  summing-up  of  him 
yet  in  existence  ? 

The  best  way  to  estimate  the  value  of  Lincoln  is  to  think  what  the 
condition  of  America  would  be  to-day,  if  he  had  never  lived  —  never 
been  President.  His  nomination  and  first  election  were  mainly  acci 
dents,  experiments.  Severely  view'd,  one  cannot  think  very  much  of 
American  Political  Parties,  from  the  beginning,  after  the  Revolutionary 
War,  down  to  'the  present  time.  Doubtless,  while  they  have  had 
their  uses  —  have  been  and  are  "the  grass  on  which  the  cow  feeds  " 
—  and  indispensable  economies  of  growth  —  it  is  undeniable  that 
under  flippant  names  they  have  merely  identified  temporary  passions, 
or  freaks,  or  sometimes  prejudice,  ignorance,  or  hatred.  The  only 
thing  like  a  great  and  worthy  idea  vitalizing  a  party,  and  making  it 
heroic,  was  the  enthusiasm  in  '64  for  re-electing  Abraham  Lincoln, 
and  the  reason  behind  that  enthusiasm. 

How  does  this  man  compare  with  the  acknowledg'd  "  Father  of 
his  country"  ?  Washington  was  model' d  on  the  best  Saxon,  and 
Franklin  —  of  the  age  of  the  Stuarts  (rooted  in  the  Elizabethan 
period)  —  was  essentially  a  noble  Englishman,  and  just  the  kind 
needed  for  the  occasions  and  the  times  of  1776— '83.  Lincoln, 
underneath  his  practicality,  was  far  less  European,  was  quite  thor 
oughly  Western,  original,  essentially  non-conventional,  and  had  a 
certain  sort  of  out-door  or  prairie  stamp.  One  of  the  best  of  the 
late  commentators  on  Shakspere,  (Professor  Dowden,)  makes  the 
height  and  aggregate  of  his  quality  as  a  poet  to  be,  that  he  thoroughly 
blended  the  ideal  with  the  practical  or  realistic.  If  this  be  so,  I 
should  say  that  what  Shakspere  did  in  poetic  expression,  Abraham 
Lincoln  essentially  did  in  his  personal  and  official  life.  I  should  say 
the  invisible  foundations  and  vertebra  of  his  character,  more  than  any 
man's  in  history,  were  mystical,  abstract,  moral  and  spiritual  —  while 
upon  all  of  them  was  built,  and  out  of  all  of  them  radiated,  under  the 
control  of  the  average  of  circumstances,  what  the  vulgar  call  borse- 
sense,  and  a  life  often  bent  by  temporary  but  most  urgent  materialistic 
and  political  reasons. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  indomitable  firmness  (even  obsti- 


438  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

nacy)  on  rare  occasions,  involving  great  points  ;  but  he  was  generally 
very  easy,  flexible,  tolerant,  almost  slouchy,  respecting  minor  matters. 
I  note  that  even  those  reports  and  anecdotes  intended  to  level  him 
down,  all  leave  the  tinge  of  a  favorable  impression  of  him.  As  to  his 
religious  nature,  it  seems  to  me  to  have  certainly  been  of  the  amplest, 
deepest-rooted,  loftiest  kind. 

Already  a  new  generation  begins  to  tread  the  stage,  since  the 
persons  and  events  of  the  secession  war.  I  have  more  than  once 
fancied  to  myself  the  time  when  the  present  century  has  closed,  and 
a  new  one  open'd,  and  the  men  and  deeds  of  that  contest  have 
become  somewhat  vague  and  mythical — fancied  perhaps  in  some 
great  Western  city,  or  group  collected  together,  or  public  festival, 
where  the  days  of  old,  of  1863,  and  '4  and  '5  are  discuss' d — some 
ancient  soldier  sitting  in  the  background  as  the  talk  goes  on,  and 
betraying  himself  by  his  emotion  and  moist  eyes — like  the  journey 
ing  Ithacan  at  the  banquet  of  King  Alcinoiis,  when  the  bard  sings 
the  contending  warriors  and  their  battles  on  the  plains  of  Troy : 

"  So  from  the  sluices  of  Ulysses'  eyes 

Fast  fell  the  tears,  and  sighs  succeeded  sighs." 

I  have  fancied,  I  say,  some  such  venerable  relic  of  this  time  of 
ours,  preserved  to  the  next  or  still  the  next  generation  of  America. 
I  have  fancied,  on  such  occasion,  the  young  men  gathering  around ; 
the  awe,  the  eager  questions:  "What!  have  you  seen  Abraham 
Lincoln — and  heard  him  speak — and  touch' d  his  hand?  Have  you, 
with  your  own  eyes,  look'd  on  Grant,  and  Lee,  and  Sherman  ?" 

Dear  to  Democracy,  to  the  very  last  !  And  among  the  paradoxes 
generated  by  America,  not  the  least  curious  was  that  spectacle  of 
all  the  kings  and  queens  and  emperors  of  the  earth,  many  from 
remote  distances,  sending  tributes  of  condolence  and  sorrow  in  mem 
ory  of  one  rais'd  through  the  commonest  average  of  life — a  rail- 
splitter  and  flat-boatman ! 

Consider*  d  from  contemporary  points  of  view — who  knows  what 
the  future  may  decide? — and  from  the  points  of  view  of  current 
Democracy  and  The  Union,  (the  only  thing  like  passion  or  infatuation 
in  the  man  was  the  passion  for  the  Union  of  These  States,)  Abra 
ham  Lincoln  seems  to  me  the  grandest  figure  yet,  on  all  the  crowded 
canvas  of  the  Nineteenth  Century, 


NEW    ORLEANS    IN     1848 

Walt    Whitman  gossips  of  bis  sojourn  here  years  ago  as  a  newspaper 
writer.      Notes  of  his  trip  up  the  Mississippi  and  to  New  York 


AMONG  the  letters  brought  this  morning  (Camden,  New  Jersey, 
Jan.  15,  1887,)  by  my  faithful  post-office  carrier,  J.  G.,  is  one 
as  follows  : 

"  NEW  ORLEANS,  Jan.  1 1,  '87.  —  We  have  been  informed  that  when  you 
were  younger  and  less  famous  than  now,  you  were  in  New  Orleans  and 
perhaps  have  helped  on  the  Picayune.  If  you  have  any  remembrance  of  the 
Picayune's  young  days,  or  of  journalism  in  New  Orleans  of  that  era,  and 
would  put  it  in  writing  (verse  or  prose)  for  the  Picaywie's  fiftieth  year  edi 
tion,  Jan.  25,  we  shall  be  pleased,"  etc. 

In  response  to  which  :  I  went  down  to  New  Orleans  early  in 
1848  to  work  on  a  daily  newspaper,  but  it  was  not  the  Picayune, 
though  I  saw  quite  a  good  deal  of  the  editors  of  that  paper,  and 
knew  its  personnel  and  ways.  But  let  me  indulge  my  pen  in  some 
gossipy  recollections  of  that  time  and  place,  with  extracts  from  my 
journal  up  the  Mississippi  and  across  the  great  lakes  to  the  Hudson. 

Probably  the  influence  most  deeply  pervading  everything  at  that 
time  through  the  United  States,  both  in  physical  facts  and  in  senti 
ment,  was  the  Mexican  War,  then  just  ended.  Following  a  bril 
liant  campaign  (in  which  our  troops  had  march' d  to  the  capital  city, 
Mexico,  and  taken  full  possession,)  we  were  returning  after  our 
victory.  From  the  situation  of  the  country,  the  city  of  New  Orleans 
had  been  our  channel  and  entrepot  for  everything,  going  and  return 
ing.  It  had  the  best  news  and  war  correspondents ;  it  had  the  most 
to  say,  through  its  leading  papers,  the  Picayune  and  Delta  especially, 
and  its  voice  was  readiest  listen* d  to;  from  it  "Chapparal"  had 
gone  out,  and  his  army  and  battle  letters  were  copied  everywhere, 
not  only  in  the  United  States,  but  in  Europe.  Then  the  social  cast 
and  results ;  no  one  who  has  never  seen  the  society  of  a  city  under 
similar  circumstances  can  understand  what  a  strange  vivacity  and 
rattle  were  given  throughout  by  such  a  situation.  I  remember  the 
crowds  of  soldiers,  the  gay  young  officers,  going  or  coming,  the 


440  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

receipt    of    important   news,    the    many    discussions,     the    returning 
wounded,  and  so  on. 

I  remember  very  well  seeing  Gen.  Taylor  with  his  staff  and  other 
officers  at  the  St.  Charles  Theatre  one  evening  (after  talking  with 
them  during  the  day.)  There  was  a  short  play  on  the  stage,  but  the 
principal  performance  was  of  Dr.  Colyer's  troupe  of  "Model  Artists," 
then  in  the  full  tide  of  their  popularity.  They  gave  many  fine  groups 
and  solo  shows.  The  house  was  crowded  with  uniforms  and  shoulder- 
straps.  Gen.  T.  himself,  if  I  remember  right,  was  almost  the  only 
officer  in  civilian  clothes ;  he  was  a  jovial,  old,  rather  stout,  plain  man, 
with  a  wrinkled  and  dark-yellow  face,  and,  in  ways  and  manners, 
show'd  the  least  of  conventional  ceremony  or  etiquette  I  ever  saw  ; 
he  laugh' d  unrestrainedly  at  everything  comical.  (He  had  a  great 
personal  resemblance  to  Fenimore  Cooper,  the  novelist,  of  New  York. ) 
I  remember  Gen.  Pillow  and  quite  a  cluster  -of  other  militaires  also 
present. 

One  of  my  choice  amusements  during  my  stay  in  New  Orleans  was 
going  down  to  the  old  French  Market,  especially  of  a  Sunday  morn 
ing.  The  show  was  a  varied  and  curious  one  ;  among  the  rest,  the 
Indian  and  negro  hucksters  with  their  wares.  For  there  were  always 
fine  specimens  of  Indians,  both  men  and  women,  young  and  old.  I 
remember  I  nearly  always  on  these  occasions  got  a  large  cup  of 
delicious  coffee  with  a  biscuit,  for  my  breakfast,  from  the  immense 
shining  copper  kettle  of  a  great  Creole  mulatto  woman  (I  believe  she 
weigh'd  230  pounds.)  I  never  have  had  such  coffee  since.  About 
nice  drinks,  anyhow,  my  recollection  of  the  "cobblers"  (with 
strawberries  and  snow  on  top  of  the  large  tumblers,)  and  also  the 
exquisite  wines,  and  the  perfect  and  mild  French  brandy,  help  the 
regretful  reminiscence  of  my  New  Orleans  experiences  of  those  days. 
And  what  splendid  and  roomy  and  leisurely  bar-rooms  !  particularly 
the  grand  ones  of  the  St.  Charles  and  St.  Louis.  Bargains,  auctions, 
appointments,  business  conferences,  &c.,  were  generally  held  in  the 
spaces  or  recesses  of  these  bar-rooms. 

I  used  to  wander  a  midday  hour  or  two  now  and  then  for  amuse 
ment  on  the  crowded  and  bustling  levees,  on  the  banks  of  the  river. 
The  diagonally  wedg'd-in  boats,  the  stevedores,  the  piles  of  cotton 
and  other  merchandise,  the  carts,  mules,  negroes,  etc.,  afforded 
never-ending  studies  and  sights  to  me.  I  made  acquaintances  among 
the  captains,  boatmen,  or  other  characters,  and  often  had  long  talks 
with  them  —  sometimes  finding  a  real  rough  diamond  among  my 
chance  encounters.  Sundays  I  sometimes  went  forenoons  to  the  old 
Catholic  Cathedral  in  the  French  quarter.  I  used  to  walk  a  good 
deal  in  this  arrondissement ;  and  I  have  deeply  regretted  since  that 
I  did  not  cultivate,  while  I  had  such  a  good  opportunity,  the  chance 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  441 

of  better  knowledge  of  French    and    Spanish   Creole  New  Orleans 
people.      (I  have  an  idea  that  there  is  much  and  of  importance  about  . 
the  Latin  race  contributions  to  American  nationality  in  the  South  and 
Southwest  that  will  never  be  put  with  sympathetic  understanding  and 
tact  on  record.) 

Let  me  say,  for  better  detail,  that  through  several  months  (1848) 
I  work'd  on  a  new  daily  paper,  The  Crescent ;  my  situation  rather 
a  pleasant  one.  My  young  brother,  Jeff,  was  with  me  ;  and  he  not 
only  grew  very  homesick,  but  the  climate  of  the  place,  and  especially 
the  water,  seriously  disagreed  with  him.  From  this  and  other  rea 
sons  (although  I  was  quite  happily  fix'd)  I  made  no  very  long  stay 
in  the  South.  In  due  time  we  took  passage  northward  for  St.  Louis 
in  the  "Pride  of  the  West"  steamer,  which  left  her  wharf  just  at 
dusk.  My  brother  was  unwell,  and  lay  in  his  berth  from  the  moment 
we  left  till  the  next  morning;  he  seem'd  to  me  to  be  in  a  fever,  and 
I  felt  alarm' d.  However,  the  next  morning  he  was  all  right  again, 
much  to  my  relief. 

Our  voyage  up  the  Mississippi  was  after  the  same  sort  as  the 
voyage,  some  months  before,  down  it.  The  shores  of  this  great 
river  are  very  monotonous  and  dull  —  one  continuous  and  rank  flat, 
with  the  exception  of  a  meagre  stretch  of  bluff,  about  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Natchez,  Memphis,  &c.  Fortunately  we  had  good  weather, 
and  not  a  great  crowd  of  passengers,  though  the  berths  were  all  full. 
The  "Pride"  jogg'd  along  pretty  well,  and  put  us  into  St.  Louis 
about  noon  Saturday.  After  looking  around  a  little  I  secured  passage 
on  the  steamer  "Prairie  Bird,"  (to  leave  late  in  the  afternoon,) 
bound  up  the  Illinois  river  to  La  Salle,  where  we  were  to  take 
canal  for  Chicago.  During  the  day  I  rambled  with  my  brother 
over  a  large  portion  of  the  town,  searched  after  a  refectory,  and, 
after  much  trouble,  succeeded  in  getting  some  dinner. 

Our  "Prairie  Bird"  started  out  at  dark,  and  a  couple  of  hours 
after  there  was  quite  a  rain  and  blow,  which  made  them  haul  in 
along  shore  and  tie  fast.  We  made  but  thirty  miles  the  whole  night. 
The  boat  was  excessively  crowded  with  passengers,  and  had  withal 
so  much  freight  that  we  could  hardly  turn  around.  I  slept  on  the 
floor,  and  the  night  was  uncomfortable  enough.  The  Illinois  river 
is  spotted  with  little  villages  with  big  names,  Marseilles,  Naples,  &c. ; 
its  banks  are  low,  and  the  vegetation  excessively  rank.  Peoria, 
some  distance  up,  is  a  pleasant  town ;  I  went  over  the  place ;  the 
country  back  is  all  rich  land,  for  sale  cheap.  Three  or  four  miles 
from  P.,  land  of  the  first  quality  can  be  bought  for  $3  or  $4  an  acre. 
(I  am  transcribing  from  my  notes  written  at  the  time.) 

Arriving  at  La  Salle  Tuesday  morning,  we  went  on  board  a  canal- 
boat,  had  a  detention  by  sticking  on  a  mud  bar,  and  then  jogg'd 


442  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

along  at  a  slow  trot,  some  seventy  of  us,  on  a  moderate-sized  boat. 
(If  the  weather  hadn't  been  rather  cool,  particularly  at  night,  it  would 
have  been  insufferable.)  Illinois  is  the  most  splendid  agricultural 
country  I  ever  saw  ;  the  land  is  of  surpassing  richness ;  the  place  par 
excellence  for  farmers.  We  stopt  at  various  points  along  the  canal, 
some  of  them  pretty  villages. 

It  was  10  o'clock  A.M.  when  we  got  in  Chicago,  too  late  for  the 
steamer;  so  we  went  to  an  excellent  public  house,  the  "American 
Temperance,"  and  I  spent  the  time  that  day  and  till  next  morning, 
looking  around  Chicago. 

At  9  the  next  forenoon  we  started  on  the  "Griffith"  (on  board 
of  which  I  am  now  inditing  these  memoranda,)  up  the  blue  waters 
of  Lake  Michigan.  I  was  delighted  with  the  appearance  of  the 
towns  along  Wisconsin.  At  Milwaukee  I  went  on  shore,  and 
walk'd  around  the  place.  They  say  the  country  back  is  beautiful 
and  rich.  (It  seems  to  me  that  if  we  should  ever  remove  from  Long 
Island,  Wisconsin  would  be  the  proper  place  to  come  to.)  The 
towns  have  a  remarkable  appearance  of  good  living,  without  any 
penury  or  want.  The  country  is  so  good  naturally,  and  labor  is  in 
such  demand. 

About  5  o'clock  one  afternoon  I  heard  the  cry  of  "a  woman  over 
board."  It  proved  to  be  a  crazy  lady,  who  had  become  so  from  the 
loss  of  her  son  a  couple  of  weeks  before.  The  small  boat  put  off,  and 
succeeded  in  picking  her  up,  though  she  had  been  in  the  water  15 
minutes.  She  was  dead.  Her  husband  was  on  board.  They  went 
off  at  the  next  stopping  place.  While  she  lay  in  the  water  she  prob 
ably  recover' d  her  reason,  as  she  toss'd  up  her  arms  and  lifted  her 
face  toward  the  boat. 

Sunday  Morning,  June  II. — We  pass'd  down  Lake  Huron  yes 
terday  and  last  night,  and  between  4  and  5  o'clock  this  morning  we 
ran  on  the  "flats,"  and  have  been  vainly  trying,  with  the  aid  of  a 
steam  tug  and  a  lumbering  lighter,  to  get  clear  again.  The  day  is 
beautiful  and  the  water  clear  and  calm.  Night  before  last  we  stopt  at 
Mackinaw,  (the  island  and  town,)  and  I  went  up  on  the  old  fort,  one 
of  the  oldest  stations  in  the  Northwest.  We  expect  to  get  to  Buffalo 
by  to-morrow.  The  tug  has  fasten' d  lines  to  us,  but  some  have  been 
snapt  and  the  others  have  no  effect.  We  seem  to  be  firmly  imbedded 
in  the  sand.  (With  the  exception  of  a  larger  boat  and  better  accom 
modations,  it  amounts  to  about  the  same  thing  as  a  becalmment  I 
underwent  on  the  Montauk  voyage,  East  Long  Island,  last  summer.) 
Later.  —  We  are  off  again  —  expect  to  reach  Detroit  before  dinner. 

We  did  not  stop  at  Detroit.  We  are  now  on  Lake  Erie,  jogging 
along  at  a  good  round  pace.  A  couple  of  hours  since  we  were  on  the 
river  above.  Detroit  seem'd  to  me  a  pretty  place  and  thrifty.  I 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  443 

especially  liked  the  looks  of  the  Canadian  shore  opposite  and  of  the 
little  village  of  Windsor,  and,  indeed,  all  along  the  banks  of  the  river. 
From  the  shrubbery  and  the  neat  appearance  of  some  of  the  cottages, 
I  think  it  must  have  been  settled  by  the  French.  While  I  now  write 
we  can  see  a  little  distance  ahead  the  scene  of  the  battle  between 
Perry's  fleet  and  the  British  during  the  last  war  with  England.  The 
lake  looks  to  me  a  fine  sheet  of  water.  We  are  having  a  beautiful 

day. 

June  12.  —  We  stopt  last  evening  at  Cleveland,  and  though  it  was 
dark,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  rambling  about  the  place  ;  went  up  in 
the  heart  of  the  city  and  back  to  what  appear' d  to  be  the  court-house. 
The  streets  are  unusually  wide,  and  the  buildings  appear  to  be  sub 
stantial  and  comfortable.  We  went  down  through  Main  street  and 
found,  some  distance  along,  several  squares  of  ground  very  prettily 
planted  with  trees  and  looking  attractive  enough.  Return' d  to  the 
boat  by  way  of  the  lighthouse  on  the  hill. 

This  morning  we  are  making  for  Buffalo,  being,  I  imagine,  a  little 
more  than  half  across   Lake  Erie.      The  water  is  rougher  than   on 
Michigan  or  Huron.      (On  St.  Clair  it  was  smooth  as  glass.) 
day  is  bright  and  dry,  with  a  stiff  head  wind. 

We  arriv'd  in  Buffalo  on  Monday  evening  ;  spent  that  night  and  a 
portion  of  next  day  going  round  the  city  exploring.  Then  got  in  the 
cars  and  went  to  Niagara  ;  went  under  the  falls  — saw  the  whirlpool 
and  all  the  other  sights. 

Tuesday  night  started  for  Albany;  travel' d  all  night.^  From  the 
time  daylight  afforded  us  a  view  of  the  country  all  seem' d  very  rich 
and  well  cultivated.  Every  few  miles  were  large  towns  or  villages. 

Wednesday  late  we  arriv'd  at  Albany.  Spent  the  evening  in 
exploring.  There  was  a  political  meeting  (Hunker)  at  the  capitol, 
but  I  pass'd  it  by.  Next  morning  I  started  down  the  Hudson  in  the 
«<  Alida  ; "  arriv'd  safely  in  New  York  that  evening. 

From  the  New  Orleans  Picayune,  Jan.  25,  1887. 


SMALL    MEMORANDA 

Thousands  lost  —  here  one  or  two  preserved 


ATTORNEY  GENERAL'S  OFFICE,  Washington,  Aug.  22, 1865.  — As 
I  write  this,  about  noon,  the  suite  of  rooms  here  is  fill'd  with  Southern 
ers,  standing  in  squads,  or  streaming  in  and  out,  some  talking  with  the 
Pardon  Clerk,  some  waiting  to  see  the  Attorney  General,  others 
discussing  in  low  tones  among  themselves.  All  are  mainly  anxious 
about  their  pardons.  The  famous  I3th  exception  of  the  President's 
Amnesty  Proclamation  of—  — ,  makes  it  necessary  that  every 

secessionist,  whose  property  is  worth  $20,000  or  over,  shall  get  a 
special  pardon,  before  he  can  transact  any  legal  purchase,  sale,  &c. 
So  hundreds  and  thousands  of  such  property  owners  have  either  sent 
up  here,  for  the  last  two  months,  or  have  been,  or  are  now  coming 
personally  here,  to  get  their  pardons.  They  are  from  Virginia, 
Georgia,  Alabama,  Mississippi,  North  and  South  Carolina,  and  every 
Southern  State.  Some  of  their  written  petitions  are  very  abject. 
Secession  officers  of  the  rank  of  Brigadier  General,  or  higher,  also 
need  these  special  pardons.  They  also  come  here.  I  see  streams  of 
the  $20,000  men,  (and  some  women,)  every  day.  I  talk  now  and 
then  with  them,  and  learn  much  that  is  interesting  and  significant. 
All  the  southern  women  that  come  (some  splendid  specimens,  mothers, 
&c. )  are  dress' d  in  deep  black. 

Immense  numbers  (several  thousands)  of  these  pardons  have  been 
pass'd  upon  favorably;  the  Pardon  Warrants  (like  great  deeds)  have 
been  issued  from  the  State  Department,  on  the  requisition  of  this 
office.  But  for  some  reason  or  other,  they  nearly  all  yet  lie  awaiting 
the  President's  signature.  He  seems  to  be  in  no  hurry  about  it,  but 
lets  them  wait. 

The  crowds  that  come  here  make  a  curious  study  for  me.  I  get 
along,  very  sociably,  with  any  of  them  —  as  I  let  them  do  all  the  talk 
ing;  only  now  and  then  I  have  a  long  confab,  or  ask  a  suggestive 
question  or  two. 

If  the  thing  continues  as  at  present,  the  property  and  wealth  of  the 
Southern  States  is  going  to  legally  rest,  for  the  future,  on  these  par 
dons.  Every  single  one  is  made  out  with  the  condition  that  the 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  445 

grantee  shall  respect  the  abolition  of  slavery,  and  never  make  an  attempt 
to  restore  it. 

Washington,  Sept.  8y  (?,  £sV.,  1865.  — The  arrivals,  swarms,  &c., 
of  the  $20,000  men  seeking  pardons,  still  continue  with  increas'd 
numbers  and  pertinacity.  I  yesterday  (I  am  a  clerk  in  the  U.  S. 
Attorney  General's  office  here)  made  out  a  long  list  from  Alabama, 
nearly  200,  recommended  for  pardon  by  the  Provisional  Governor. 
This  list,  in  the  shape  of  a  requisition  from  the  Attorney  General, 
goes  to  the  State  Department.  There  the  Pardon  Warrants  are  made 
out,  brought  back  here,  and  then  sent  to  the  President,  where  they 
await  his  signature.  He  is  signing  them  very  freely  of  late. 

The  President,  indeed,  as  at  present  appears,  has  fix'd  his  mind  on 
a  very  generous  and  forgiving  course  toward  the  return' d  secessionists. 
He  will  not  countenance  at  all  the  demand  of  the  extreme  Philo- 
African  element  of  the  North,  to  make  the  right  of  negro  voting  at 
elections  a  condition  and  sine  qua  non  of  the  reconstruction  of  the 
United  States  south,  and  of  their  resumption  of  co-equality  in  the 
Union. 

A  GLINT  INSIDE  OF  While  it  was  hanging  in  suspense  who 
ABRAHAM  LIN-  should  be  appointed  Secretary  of  the  Inte- 

COLN'S  CABINET  rior,  (to  take  the  place  of  Caleb  Smith,) 
APPOINTMENTS.  the  choice  was  very  close  between  Mr. 

ONE  ITEM  OF  Harlan    and    Col.    Jesse    K.    Dubois,   of 

MANY  Illinois.     The   latter   had    many   friends. 

He  was  competent,  he  was  honest,   and 

he  was  a  man.  Mr.  Harlan,  in  the  race,  finally  gain'd  the  Methodist 
interest,  and  got  himself  to  be  consider' d  as  identified  with  it;  and  his 
appointment  was  apparently  ask'd  for  by  that  powerful  body.  Bishop 
Simpson,  of  Philadephia,  came  on  and  spoke  for  the  selection.  The 
President  was  much  perplex' d.  The  reasons  for  appointing  Col. 
Dubois  were  very  strong,  almost  insuperable  —  yet  the  argument  for 
Mr.  Harlan,  under  the  adroit  position  he  had  plac'd  himself,  was 
heavy.  Those  who  press' d  him  adduc'd  the  magnitude  of  the  Metho 
dists  as  a  body,  their  loyalty,  more  general  and  genuine  than  any  other 
sect  — that  they  represented  the  West,  and  had  a  right  to  be  heard  — 
that  all  or  nearly  all  the  other  great  denominations  had  their  represen 
tatives  in  the  heads  of  the  government — that  they  as  a  body  and  the 
great  sectarian  power  of  the  West,  formally  ask'd  Mr.  Harlan' s 
appointment  —  that  he  was  of  them,  having  been  a  Methodist  minister 
—  that  it  would  not  do  to  offend  them,  but  was  highly  necessary  to 
propitiate  them. 

Mr.  Lincoln  thought  deeply  over  the  whole  matter.  He  was  in 
more  than  usual  tribulation  on  the  subject.  Let  it  be  enough  to  say 


446  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

that  though  Mr.  Harlan  finally  receiv'd  the  Secretaryship,  Col. 
Dubois  came  as  near  being  appointed  as  a  man  could,  and  not  be. 
The  decision  was  finally  made  one  night  about  10  o'clock.  Bishop 
Simpson  and  other  clergymen  and  leading  persons  in  Mr.  Harlan' s 
behalf,  had  been  talking  long  and  vehemently  with  the  President. 
A  member  of  Congress  who  was  pressing  Col.  Dubois's  claims,  was 
in  waiting.  The  President  had  told  the  Bishop  that  he  would  make 
a  decision  that  evening,  and  that  he  thought  it  unnecessary  to  be 
press' d  any  more  on  the  subject.  That  night  he  call'd  in  the  M.  C. 
above  alluded  to,  and  said  to  him  :  "Tell  Uncle  Jesse  that  I  want  to 
give  him  this  appointment,  and  yet  I  cannot.  I  will  do  almost  any 
thing  else  in  the  world  for  him  I  am  able.  I  have  thought  the  matter 
all  over,  and  under  the  circumstances  think  the  Methodists  too  good 
and  too  great  a  body  to  be  slighted.  They  have  stood  by  the  govern 
ment,  and  help'd  us  their  very  best.  I  have  had  no  better  friends ; 
and  as  the  case  stands,  I  have  decided  to  appoint  Mr.  Harlan." 

NOTE  TO  A  FRIEND  Pete,  do  you  remember  —  (of  course  you 
Written  on  the  fly-Uaf  of  a  copy  do  —  I  do  well)  —  those  great  long  jovial 
of  Specimen  Days,  tent  to  Peter  walks  we  had  at  times  for  years,  (1866- 
Doy/t,  at  Wa&ington,  June,  '72)  out  of  Washington  city — often 
2883  moonlight  nights  —  '  way  to  "  Good 

Hope ' ' ;  —  or,  Sundays,  up  and  down  the 

Potomac  shores,  one  side  or  the  other,  sometimes  ten  miles  at  a 
stretch  ?  Or  when  you  work'd  on  the  horse-cars,  and  I  waited  for 
you,  coming  home  late  together  —  or  resting  and  chatting  at  the 
Market,  corner  7th  street  and  the  Avenue,  and  eating  those  nice 
musk  or  watermelons  ?  Or  during  my  tedious  sickness  and  first 
paralysis  ('73)  how  you  used  to  come  to  my  solitary  garret-room  and 
make  up  my  bed,  and  enliven  me,  and  chat  for  an  hour  or  so  —  or 
perhaps  go  out  and  get  the  medicines  Dr.  Drinkard  had  order' d  for 
me  —  before  you  went  on  duty  ?  .  .  .  Give  my  love  to  dear  Mrs. 
and  Mr.  Nash,  and  tell  them  I  have  not  forgotten  them,  and  never 
will.  W.  W. 

WRITTEN   IM-  Germantown,  Pbila.,  Dec.  26,  '83.     In 

PROMPTU  IN  AN  memory  of  these  merry  Christmas  days 
ALBUM  and  nights  —  to  my  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

Williams,   Churchie,   May,  Gurney,  and 

little  Aubrey.  ...  A  heavy  snow-storm  blocking  up  everything, 
and  keeping  us  in.  But  souls,  hearts,  thoughts,  unloos'd.  And  so  — 
one  and  all,  little  and  big  — hav'n't  we  had  a  good  time  ? 

W.  W. 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  447 

THE  PLACE  GRATI-  Scene.  —  A  large  family  supper  party,  a 
TUDE  FILLS  IN  A  night  or  two  ago,  with  voices  and  laughter 
FINE  CHARACTER  of  the  young,  mellow  faces  of  the  old, 
From  the  Philadelphia  Prca,  and  a  by-and-by  pause  in  the  general 
Nov.  27,  1884,  (Thanksgiving  joviality.  "  Now,  Mr.  Whitman,"  spoke 
number)  up  one  of  the  girls,  "  what  have  you  to 

say    about    Thanksgiving  ?       Won't    you 

give  us  a  sermon  in  advance,  to  sober  us  down  ? ' '  The  sage  nodded 
smilingly,  look'd  a  moment  at  the  blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire,  ran 
his  forefinger  right  and  left  through  the  heavy  white  mustache  that 
might  have  otherwise  impeded  his  voice,  and  began  :  "  Thanksgiving 
goes  probably  far  deeper  than  you  folks  suppose.  I  am  not  sure  but  it 
is  the  source  of  the  highest  poetry  —  as  in  parts  of  the  Bible.  Ruskin, 
indeed,  makes  the  central  source  of  all  great  art  to  be  praise  (gratitude) 
to  the  Almighty  for  life,  and  the  universe  with  its  objects  and  play  of 
action. 

"  We  Americans  devote  an  official  day  to  it  every  year  ;  yet  I  some 
times  fear  the  real  article  is  almost  dead  or  dying  in  our  self-sufficient, 
independent  Republic.  Gratitude,  anyhow,  has  never  been  made 
half  enough  of  by  the  moralists ;  it  is  indispensable  to  a  complete 
character,  man's  or  woman's  —  the  disposition  to  be  appreciative, 
thankful.  That  is  the  main  matter,  the  element,  inclination  —  what 
geologists  call  the  trend.  Of  my  own  life  and  writings  I  estimate 
the  giving  thanks  part,  with  what  it  infers,  as  essentially  the  best  item. 
I  should  say  the  quality  of  gratitude  rounds  the  whole  emotional 
nature  ;  I  should  say  love  and  faith  would  quite  lack  vitality  without 
it.  There  are  people  —  shall  I  call  them  even  religious  people,  as 
things  go  ?  —  who  have  no  such  trend  to  their  disposition." 


30 


LAST  OF  THE  WAR  CASES 

Memorandixed  at  tbe  time,  Washington,  1865-66 


[Op  reminiscences  of  the  secession  war,  after  the  rest  is  said,  I 
have  thought  it  remains  to  give  a  few  special  words  —  in  some 
respects  at  the  time  the  typical  words  of  all,  and  most  definite  —  of 
the  samples  of  the  kill'd  and  wounded  in  action,  and  of  soldiers  who 
linger' d  afterward,  from  these  wounds,  or  were  laid  up  by  obstinate 
disease  or  prostration.  The  general  statistics  have  been  printed 
already,  but  can  bear  to  be  briefly  stated  again.  There  were  over 
3,000,000  men  (for  all  periods  of  enlistment,  large  and  small)  fur 
nish*  d  to  the  Union  army  during  the  war,  New  York  State  furnishing 
over  500,000,  which  was  the  greatest  number  of  any  one  State. 
The  losses  by  disease,  wounds,  kilPd  in  action,  accidents,  &c.,  were 
altogether  about  600,000,  or  approximating  to  that  number.  Over 
4,000,000  cases  were  treated  in  the  main  and  adjudicatory  army 
hospitals.  The  number  sounds  strange,  but  it  is  true.  More  than 
two-thirds  of  the  deaths  were  from  prostration  or  disease.  To-day 
there  lie  buried  over  300,000  soldiers  in  the  various  National  army 
Cemeteries,  more  than  half  of  them  (and  that  is  really  the  most  sig 
nificant  and  eloquent  bequest  of  the  war)  mark'd  "unknown."  In 
full  mortuary  statistics  of  the  war,  the  greatest  deficiency  arises  from 
our  not  having  the  rolls,  even  as  far  as  they  were  kept,  of  most  of  the 
Southern  military  prisons  —  a  gap  which  probably  both  adds  to,  and 
helps  conceal,  the  indescribable  horrors  of  those  places ;  it  is,  how 
ever,  (restricting  one  vivid  point  only)  certain  that  over  30,000 
Union  soldiers  died,  largely  of  actual  starvation,  in  them.  And  now, 
leaving  all  figures  and  their  "sum  totals,"  I  feel  sure  a  few  genuine 
memoranda  of  such  things  —  some  cases  jotted  down  '64,  '65,  and 
'66 —  made  at  the  time  and  on  the  spot,  with  all  the  associations  of 
those  scenes  and  places  brought  back,  will  not  only  go  directest  to  the 
right  spot,  but  give  a  clearer  and  more  actual  sight  of  that  period,  than 
anything  else.  Before  I  give  the  last  cases  I  begin  with  verbatim 
extracts  from  letters  home  to  my  mother  in  Brooklyn,  the  second  year 
of  the  war.  —  W.  W.] 

Washington,    Oct.    13,    1863.  —  There    has  been   a  new  lot  of 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  449 

wounded  and  sick  arriving  for  the  last  three  days.  The  first  and 
second  days,  long  strings  of  ambulances  with  the  sick.  Yesterday  the 
worst,  many  with  bad  and  bloody  wounds,  inevitably  long  neglected. 
I  thought  I  was  cooler  and  more  used  to  it,  but  the  sight  of  some 
cases  brought  tears  into  my  eyes.  I  had  the  luck  yesterday,  however, 
to  do  lots  of  good.  Had  provided  many  nourishing  articles  for  the 
men  for  another  quarter,  but,  fortunately,  had  my  stores  where  I 
could  use  them  at  once  for  these  new-comers,  as  they  arrived,  faint, 
hungry,  fagg'd  out  from  their  journey,  with  soil'd  clothes,  and  all 
bloody.  I  distributed  these  articles,  gave  partly  to  the  nurses  I  knew, 
or  to  those  in  charge.  As  many  as  possible  I  fed  myself.  Then  I 
found  a  lot  of  oyster  soup  handy,  and  bought  it  all  at  once. 

It  is  the  most  pitiful  sight,  this,  when  the  men  are  first  brought  in, 
from  some  camp  hospital  broke  up,  or  a  part  of  the  army  moving. 
These  who  arrived  yesterday  are  cavalry  men.  Our  troops  had 
fought  like  devils,  but  got  the  worst  of  it.  They  were  Kilpatrick's 
cavalry;  were  in  the  rear,  part  of  Meade's  retreat,  and  the  reb 
cavalry,  knowing  the  ground  and  taking  a  favorable  opportunity, 
dash'd  in  between,  cut  them  off,  and  shell' d  them  terribly.  But 
Kilpatrick  turn'd  and  brought  them  out  mostly.  It  was  last  Sunday. 
(One  of  the  most  terrible  sights  and  tasks  is  of  such  receptions.) 

Oct.  27,  1863-  —  If  any  of  the  soldiers  I  know  (or  their  parents 
or  folks)  should  call  upon  you  —  as  they  are  often  anxious  to  have  my 
address  in  Brooklyn  —  you  just  use  them  as  you  know  how,  and  if  you 
happen  to  have  pot-luck,  and  feel  to  ask  them  to  take  a  bite,  don't  be 
afraid  to  do  so.  I  have  a  friend,  Thomas  Neat,  zd  N.  Y.  Cavalry, 
wounded  in  leg,  now  home  in  Jamaica,  on  furlough  ;  he  will  probably 
call.  Then  possibly  a  Mr.  Haskell,  or  some  of  his  folks,  from 
western  New  York :  he  had  a  son  died  here,  and  I  was  with  the  boy 
a  good  deal.  The  old  man  and  his  wife  have  written  me  and  ask'd 
me  my  Brooklyn  address;  he  said  he  had  children  in  New  York,  and 
was  occasionally  down  there.  (When  I  come  home  I  will  show  you 
some  of  the  letters  I  get  from  mothers,  sisters,  fathers,  &c.  They 
will  make  you  cry.) 

How  the  time  passes  away  !  To  think  it  is  over  a  year  since  I  left 
home  suddenly  —  and  have  mostly  been  down  in  front  since.  The 
year  has  vanish' d  swiftly,  and  oh,  what  scenes  I  have  witness' d  during 
that  time !  And  the  war  is  not  settled  yet ;  and  one  does  not  see 
anything  certain,  or  even  promising,  of  a  settlement.  But  I  do  not 
lose  the  solid  feeling,  in  myself,  that  the  Union  triumph  is  assured, 
whether  it  be  sooner  or  whether  it  be  later,  or  whatever  roundabout 
way  we  may  be  led  there;  and  I  find  I  don't  change  that  conviction 
from  any  reverses  we  meet,  nor  delays,  nor  blunders.  One  realizes 
here  in  Washington  the  great  labors,  even  the  negative  ones,  of  Lin- 


450  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

coin  ;  that  it  is  a  big  thing  to  have  just  kept  the  United  States  from 
being  thrown  down  and  having  its  throat  cut.  I  have  not  waver' d  or 
had  any  doubt  of  the  issue,  since  Gettysburg. 

8tb  September,  '63.  —  Here,  now,  is  a  specimen  army  hospital  case: 
Lorenzo  Strong,  Co.  A,  9th  United  States  Cavalry,  shot  by  a  shell  last 
Sunday ;  right  leg  amputated  on  the  field.  Sent  up  here  Monday 
night,  1 4th.  Seem'd  to  be  doing  pretty  well  till  Wednesday  noon, 
1 6th,  when  he  took  a  turn  for  the  worse,  and  a  strangely  rapid  and 
fatal  termination  ensued.  Though  I  had  much  to  do,  I  staid  and  saw 
all.  It  was  a  death-picture  characteristic  of  these  soldiers'  hospitals — 
the  perfect  specimen  of  physique,  one  of  the  most  magnificent  I  ever 
saw  —  the  convulsive  spasms  and  working  of  muscles,  mouth,  and 
throat.  There  are  two  good  women  nurses,  one  on  each  side.  The 
doctor  comes  in  and  gives  him  a  little  chloroform.  One  of  the  nurses 
constantly  fans  him,  for  it  is  fearfully  hot.  He  asks  to  be  rais'd  up, 
and  they  put  him  in  a  half-sitting  posture.  He  calPd  for  "  Mark" 
repeatedly,  half-deliriously,  all  day.  Life  ebbs,  runs  now  with  the 
speed  of  a  mill  race  ;  his  splendid  neck,  as  it  lays  all  open,  works  still, 
slightly  ;  his  eyes  turn  back.  A  religious  person  coming  in  offers 
a  prayer,  in  subdued  tones,  bent  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ;  and  in  the 
space  of  the  aisle,  a  crowd,  including  two  or  three  doctors,  several 
students,  and  many  soldiers,  has  silently  gather' d.  It  is  very  still  and 
warm,  as  the  struggle  goes  on,  and  dwindles,  a  little  more,  and  a  little 
more  —  and  then  welcome  oblivion,  painlessness,  death.  A  pause,  the 
crowd  drops  away,  a  white  bandage  is  bound  around  and  under  the 
jaw,  the  propping  pillows  are  removed,  the  limpsy  head  falls  down, 
the  arms  are  softly  placed  by  the  side,  all  composed,  all  still,  —  and 
the  broad  white  sheet  is  thrown  over  everything. 

April  lOy  1864.  —  Unusual  agitation  all  around  concentrated  here. 
Exciting  times  in  Congress.  The  Qopperheads  are  getting  furious, 
and  want  to  recognize  the  Southern  Confederacy.  "This  is  a  pretty 

time  to  talk  of  recognizing  such ,"  said  a  Pennsylvania  officer 

in  hospital  to  me  to-day,  "  after  what  has  transpired  the  last  three 
years."  After  first  Fredericksburg  I  felt  discouraged  myself,  and 
doubted  whether  our  rulers  could  carry  on  the  war.  But  that  has 
pass'd  away.  The  war  must  be  carried  on.  I  would  willingly  go  in 
the  ranks  myself  if  I  thought  it  would  profit  more  than  as  at  present,  and 
I  don't  know  sometimes  but  I  shall,  as  it  is.  Then  there  is  certainly 
a  strange,  deep,  fervid  feeling  form'd  or  arous'din  the  land,  hard  to 
describe  or  name  ;  it  is  not  a  majority  feeling,  but  it  will  make  itself 
felt.  M.,  you  don't  know  what  a  nature  a  fellow  gets,  not  only  after 
being  a  soldier  a  while,  but  after  living  in  the  sights  and  influences  of 
the  camps,  the  wounded,  &c.  —  a  nature  he  never  experienced  before. 
The  stars  and  stripes,  the  tune  of  Yankee  Doodle,  and  similar  things, 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  451 

produce  such  an  effect  on  a  fellow  as  never  before.  I  have  seen  them 
bring  tears  on  some  men's  cheeks,  and  others  turn  pale  with  emotion. 
I  have  a  little  flag  (it  belong' d  to  one  of  our  cavalry  regiments,)  pre 
sented  to  me  by  one  of  the  wounded ;  it  was  taken  by  the  secesh  in  a 
fight,  and  rescued  by  our  men  in  a  bloody  skirmish  following.  It  cost 
three  men's  lives  to  get  back  that  four-by-three  flag — to  tear  it  from 
the  breast  of  a  dead  rebel  —  for  the  name  of  getting  their  little  "rag" 
back  again.  The  man  that  secured  it  was  very  badly  wounded,  and 
they  let  him  keep  it.  I  was  with  him  a  good  deal ;  he  wanted  to  give 
me  some  keepsake,  he  said,  —  he  didn't  expect  to  live,  — so  he  gave 
me  that  flag.  The  best  of  it  all  is,  dear  M.,  there  isn't  a  regiment, 
cavalry  or  infantry,  that  wouldn't  do  the  like,  on  the  like  occasion. 

April  12.  — I  will  finish  my  letter  this  morning;  it  is  a  beautiful 
day.  I  was  up  in  Congress  very  late  last  night.  The  House  had  a 
very  excited  night  session  about  expelling  the  men  that  proposed 
recognizing  the  Southern  Confederacy.  You  ought  to  hear  (as  I  do) 
the  soldiers  talk;  they  are  excited  to  madness.  We  shall  probably 
have  hot  times  here,  not  in  the  military  fields  alone.  The  body  of  the 
army  is  true  and  firm  as  the  North  Star. 

May  6,  '64.  —  M.,  the  poor  soldier  with  diarrhoea,  is  still  living, 
but,  oh,  what  a  looking  object!  Death  would  be  a  relief  to  him  —  he 
cannot  last  many  hours.  Cunningham,  the  Ohio  soldier,  with  leg 
amputated  at  thigh,  has  pick'd  up  beyond  expectation;  now  looks 
indeed  like  getting  well.  (He  died  a  few  weeks  afterwards.)  The 
hospitals  are  very  full.  I  am  very  well  indeed.  Hot  here  to-day. 

May  23,  '64.  —  Sometimes  I  think  that  should  it  come  when  it 
must,  to  fall  in  battle,  one's  anguish  over  a  son  or  brother  kill'd  might 
be  temper' d  with  much  to  take  the  edge  off.  Lingering  and  extreme 
suffering  from  wounds  or  sickness  seem  to  me  far  worse  than  death  in 
battle.  I  can  honestly  say  the  latter  has  no  terrors  for  me,  as  far  as  I 
myself  am  concern' d.  Then  I  should  say,  too,  about  death  in  war, 
that  our  feelings  and  imaginations  make  a  thousand  times  too  much  of 
the  whole  matter.  Of  the  many  I  have  seen  die,  or  known  of,  the 
past  year,  I  have  not  seen  or  known  one  who  met  death  with  terror. 
In  most  cases  I  should  say  it  was  a  welcome  relief  and  release. 

Yesterday  I  spent  a  good  part  of  the  afternoon  with  a  young 
soldier  of  seventeen,  Charles  Cutter,  of  Lawrence  city,  Massachu 
setts,  1st  Massachusetts  Heavy  Artillery,  Battery  M.  He  was 
brought  to  one  of  the  hospitals  mortally  wounded  in  abdomen. 
Well,  I  thought  to  myself,  as  I  sat  looking  at  him,  it  ought  to  be  a 
relief  to  his  folks  if  they  could  see  how  little  he  really  suffer' d.  He 
lay  very  placid,  in  a  half  lethargy,  with  his  eyes  closed.  As  it  was 
extremely  hot,  and  I  sat  a  good  while  silently  fanning  him,  and 
wiping  the  sweat,  at  length  he  open'd  his  eyes  quite  wide  and  clear, 


452  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  look'd  inquiringly  around.  I  said,  "What  is  it,  my  boy?  Do 
you  want  anything?''  He  answer* d  quietly,  with  a  good-natured 
smile,  "Oh,  nothing;  I  was  only  looking  around  to  see  who  was 
with  me."  His  mind  was  somewhat  wandering,  yet  he  lay  in  an 
evident  peacefulness  that  sanity  and  health  might  have  envied.  I  had 
to  leave  for  other  engagements.  He  died,  I  heard  afterward,  with 
out  any  special  agitation,  in  the  course  of  the  night. 

Washington,  May  26,  '63. — M.,  I  think  something  of  commenc 
ing  a  series  of  lectures,  readings,  talks,  &c.,  through  the  cities  of  the 
North,  to  supply  myself  with  funds  for  hospital  ministrations.  I 
do  not  like  to  be  so  beholden  to  others  ;  I  need  a  pretty  free  supply 
of  money,  and  the  work  grows  upon  me,  and  fascinates  me.  It  is 
the  most  magnetic  as  well  as  terrible  sight :  the  lots  of  poor  wounded 
and  helpless  men  depending  so  much,  in  one  ward  or  another,  upon 
my  soothing  or  talking  to  them,  or  rousing  them  up  a  little,  or  per 
haps  petting,  or  feeding  them  their  dinner  or  supper  (here  is  a  patient, 
for  instance,  wounded  in  both  arms,)  or  giving  some  trifle  for  a 
novelty  or  change  —  anything,  however  trivial,  to  break  the  monot 
ony  of  those  hospital  hours. 

It  is  curious:  when  I  am  present  at  the  most  appalling  scenes, 
deaths,  operations,  sickening  wounds  (perhaps  full  of  maggots,)  I  keep 
cool  and  do  not  give  out  or  budge,  although  my  sympathies  are  very 
much  excited;  but  often,  hours  afterward,  perhaps  when  I  am  home, 
or  out  walking  alone,  I  feel  sick,  and  actually  tremble,  when  I  recall 
the  case  again  before  me. 

Sunday  afternoon,  opening  of  1865.  —  Pass'd  this  afternoon  among 
a  collection  of  unusually  bad  cases,  wounded  and  sick  secession 
soldiers,  left  upon  our  hands.  I  spent  the  previous  Sunday  afternoon 
there  also.  At  that  time  two  were  dying.  Two  others  have  died 
during  the  week.  Several  of  them  are  partly  deranged.  I  went 
around  among  them  elaborately.  Poor  boys,  they  all  needed  to  be 
cheer' d  up.  As  I  sat  down  by  any  particular  one,  the  eyes  of  all  the 
rest  in  the  neighboring  cots  would  fix  upon  me,  and  remain  steadily 
riveted  as  long  as  I  sat  within  their  sight.  Nobody  seem'd  to  wish 
anything  special  to  eat  or  drink.  The  main  thing  ask'd  for  was 
postage  stamps,  and  paper  for  writing.  I  distributed  all  the  stamps  I 
had.  Tobacco  was  wanted  by  some. 

One  call'd  me  over  to  him  and  ask'd  me  in  a  low  tone  what 
denomination  I  belong' d  to.  He  said  he  was  a  Catholic — wish'd  to 
find  some  one  of  the  same  faith  —  wanted  some  good  reading.  I  gave 
him  something  to  read,  and  sat  down  by  him  a  few  minutes.  Moved 
around  with  a  word  for  each.  They  were  hardly  any  of  them 
personally  attractive  cases,  and  no  visitors  come  here.  Of  course  they 
were  all  destitute  of  money.  I  gave  small  sums  to  two  or  three, 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  453 

apparently  the  most  needy.      The  men  are  from  quite  all  the  Southern 
States,  Georgia,  Mississippi,  Louisiana,  &c. 

Wrote  several  letters.  One  for  a  young  fellow  named  Thomas  J. 
Byrd,  with  a  bad  wound  and  diarrhoea.  Was  from  Russell  county, 
Alabama ;  been  out  four  years.  Wrote  to  his  mother ;  had  neither  heard 
from  her  nor  written  to  her  in  nine  months.  Was  taken  prisoner  last 
Christmas,  in  Tennessee;  sent  to  Nashville,  then  to  Camp  Chase, 
Ohio,  and  kept  there  a  long  time ;  all  the  while  not  money  enough  to 
get  paper  and  postage  stamps.  Was  paroled,  but  on  his  way  home 
the  wound  took  gangrene ;  had  diarrhoea  also ;  had  evidently  been  very 
low.  Demeanor  cool,  and  patient.  A  dark-skinn'd,  quaint  young 
fellow,  with  strong  Southern  idiom ;  no  education. 

Another  letter  for  John  W.  Morgan,  aged  I  8,  from  Shellot,  Bruns 
wick  county,  North  Carolina  ;  been  out  nine  months ;  gunshot  wound 
in  right  leg,  above  knee;  also  diarrhoea;  wound  getting  along  well; 
quite  a  gentle,  affectionate  boy ;  wish'd  me  to  put  in  the  letter  for  his 
mother  to  kiss  his  little  brother  and  sister  for  him.  [I  put  strong  ^en 
velopes  on  these,  and  two  or  three  other  letters,  directed  them  plainly 
and  fully,  and  dropt  them  in  the  Washington  post-office  the  next 
morning  myself.] 

The  large  ward  I  am  in  is  used  for  secession  soldiers  exclusively. 
One  man,  about  forty  years  of  age,  emaciated  with  diarrhoea,  I  was 
attracted  to,   as  he  lay  with  his  eyes  turn'd  up,  looking  like  death. 
His  weakness  was  so  extreme  that  it  took  a  minute  or  so,  every  time, 
for  him  to  talk  with  anything  like  consecutive  meaning;  yet  he  was 
evidently  a  man  of  good  intelligence  and  education.      As  I  said  any 
thing,  he  would  lie  a  moment  perfectly  still,  then,  with  closed  eyes, 
answer  in  a  low,  very  slow  voice,  quite  correct  and  sensible,  but  in  a 
way  and  tone  that  wrung  my  heart.      He  had  a  mother,  wife,  and  child 
living  (or  probably  living)  in  his  home  in  Mississippi.      It   was  long, 
long  since  he  had  seen  them.      Had  he  caus'd  a  letter  to  be  sent  them 
since  he    got   here   in   Washington  ?     No    answer.      I   repeated    the 
question,  very  slowly  and  soothingly.      He  could  not  tell  whether  he 
had  or  not  —  things  of  late  seem'd  to  him  like  a  dream.      After  wait 
ing  a  moment,  I  said:   "  Well,  I  am  going  to  walk  down  the  ward  a 
moment,  and  when  I  come  back  you  can  tell  me.      If  you  have  not 
written,  I  will  sit  down  and  write."      A  few  minutes  after  I  return' d; 
he  said  he  remember' d  now  that  some  one  had  written  for  him  two  or 
three  days  before.      The  presence  of  this  man  impress' d  me  profoundly. 
The  flesh  was  all  sunken  on  face  and  arms  ;  the  eyes  low  in  their  sockets 
and  glassy,  and  with  purple  rings  around  them.      Two  or  three  great 
tears  silently  flow'd  out   from  the  eyes,  and  roll'd  down  his  temples 
(he  was  doubtless  unused  to  be  spoken  to  as  I  was  speaking  to  him.) 
Sickness,  imprisonment,  exhaustion,  &c.,  had  conquer' d  the  body,  yet 


454  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  mind  held  mastery  still,  and  call'd  even  wandering  remembrance 
back. 

There  are  some  fifty  Southern  soldiers  here  ;  all  sad,  sad  cases. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  scurvy.  I  distributed  some  paper,  envelopes, 
and  postage  stamps,  and  wrote  addresses  full  and  plain  on  many  of 
the  envelopes. 

I  returned  again  Tuesday,  August  I,  and  moved  around  in  the 
same  manner  a  couple  of  hours. 

September  22,  '6$.  —  Afternoon  and  evening  at  Douglas  hospital 
to  see  a  friend  belonging  to  zd  New  York  Artillery  (Hiram  W. 
Frazee,  Serg't,)  down  with  an  obstinate  compound  fracture  of  left 
leg  receiv'd  in  one  of  the  last  battles  near  Petersburg.  After  sitting  a 
while  with  him,  went  through  several  neighboring  wards.  In  one  of 
them  found  an  old  acquaintance  transferr'd  here  lately,  a  rebel  pris 
oner,  in  a  dying  condition.  Poor  fellow,  the  look  was  already  on 
his  face.  He  gazed  long  at  me.  I  ask'd  him  if  he  knew  me.  After 
a  moment  he  utter' d  something,  but  inarticulately.  I  have  seen  him 
off  and  on  for  the  last  five  months.  He  has  suffer' d  very  much  ;  a 
bad  wound  in  left  leg,  severely  fractured,  several  operations,  cuttings, 
extractions  of  bone,  splinters,  &c.  I  remember  he  seem'd  to  me,  as 
I  used  to  talk  with  him,  a  fair  specimen  of  the  main  strata  of  the 
Southerners,  those  without  property  or  education,  but  still  with  the 
stamp  which  comes  from  freedom  and  equality.  I  liked  him ; 
Jonathan  Wallace,  of  Hurd  co.,  Georgia,  age  30  (wife,  Susan  F. 
Wallace,  Houston,  Hurd  co.,  Georgia.)  [If  any  good  soul  of  that 
county  should  see  this,  I  hope  he  will  send  her  this  word.]  Had  a 
family  ;  had  not  heard  from  them  since  taken  prisoner,  now  six 
months.  I  had  written  for  him,  and  done  trifles  for  him,  before  he 
came  here.  He  made  no  outward  show,  was  mild  in  his  talk  and 
behavior,  but  I  knew  he  worried  much  inwardly.  But  now  all  would 
be  over  very  soon.  I  half  sat  upon  the  little  stand  near  the  head  of 
the  bed.  Wallace  was  somewhat  restless.  I  placed  my  hand  lightly 
on  his  forehead  and  face,  just  sliding  it  over  the  surface.  In  a 
moment  or  so  he  fell  into  a  calm,  regular- breathing  lethargy  or 
sleep,  and  remain' d  so  while  I  sat  there.  It  was  dark,  and  the 
lights  were  lit.  I  hardly  know  why  (death  seem'd  hovering  near,) 
but  I  stay'd  nearly  an  hour.  A  Sister  of  Charity,  dress' d  in  black, 
with  a  broad  white  linen  bandage  around  her  head  and  under  her 
chin,  and  a  black  crape  over  all  and  flowing  down  from  her  head 
in  long  wide  pieces,  came  to  him,  and  moved  around  the  bed. 
She  bow'd  low  and  solemn  to  me.  For  some  time  she  moved 
around  there  noiseless  as  a  ghost,  doing  little  things  for  the  dying 
man. 

December,   '6$. — The  only  remaining  hospital  is  now  "Hare- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  455 

wood,"  out  in  the  woods,  northwest  of  the  city.      I  have  been  visit 
ing  there  regularly  every  Sunday  during  these  two  months. 

January  24,  ' 66. — Went  out  to  Harewood  early  to-day,  and 
remain' d  all  day. 

Sunday,  February  4,  1866.  — Harewood  Hospital  again.  Walk'd 
out  this  afternoon  (bright,  dry,  ground  frozen  hard)  through  the 
woods.  Ward  6  is  fill'd  with  blacks,  some  with  wounds,  some  ill, 
two  or  three  with  limbs  frozen.  The  boys  made  quite  a  picture 
sitting  round  the  stove.  Hardly  any  can  read  or  write.  I  write  for 
three  or  four,  direct  envelopes,  give  some  tobacco,  &c. 

Joseph  Winder,  a  likely  boy,  aged  twenty-three,  belongs  to  loth 
Color'd  Infantry  (now  in  Texas;)  is  from  Eastville,  Virginia.  Was 
a  slave;  belong' d  to  Lafayette  Homeston.  The  master  was  quite 
willing  he  should  leave.  Join'd  the  army  two  years  ago  ;  has  been 
in  one  or  two  battles.  Was  sent  to  hospital  with  rheumatism.  Has 
since  been  employ 'd  as  cook.  His  parents  at  Eastville ;  he  gets 
letters  from  them,  and  has  letters  written  to  them  by  a  friend.  Many 
black  boys  left  that  part  of  Virginia  and  join' d  the  army;  the  loth,  in 
fact,  was  made  up  of  Virginia  blacks  from  thereabouts.  As  soon  as 
discharged  is  going  back  to  Eastville  to  his  parents  and  home,  and 
intends  to  stay  there. 

Thomas  King,  formerly  zd  District  Color'd  Regiment,  discharged 
soldier,  Company  E,  lay  in  a  dying  condition ;  his  disease  was  con 
sumption.  A  Catholic  priest  was  administering  extreme  unction  to 
him.  (I  have  seen  this  kind  of  sight  several  times  in  the  hospitals  ; 
it  is  very  impressive. ) 

Harewood,  April  29,  1866.  Sunday  afternoon.  —  Poor  Joseph 
Swiers,  Company  H,  15 5th  Pennsylvania,  a  mere  lad  (only  eighteen 
years  of  age;)  his  folks  living  in  Reedsburgh,  Pennsylvania.  I  have 
known  him  for  nearly  a  year,  transferr'd  from  hospital  to  hospital. 
He  was  badly  wounded  in  the  thigh  at  Hatcher's  Run,  February 
6,  '65. 

James  E.  Ragan,  Atlanta,  Georgia ;  zd  United  States  Infantry. 
Union  folks.  Brother  impress' d,  deserted,  died;  now  no  folks,  left 
alone  in  the  world,  is  in  a  singularly  nervous  state  ;  came  in  hospital 
with  intermittent  fever. 

Walk  slowly  around  the  ward,  observing,  and  to  see  if  I  can  do 
anything.  Two  or  three  are  lying  very  low  with  consumption,  can 
not  recover ;  some  with  old  wounds ;  one  with  both  feet  frozen 
off,  so  that  on  one  only  the  heel  remains.  The  supper  is  being  given 
out:  the  liquid  call'd  tea,  a  thick  slice  of  bread,  and  some  stew'd 
apples. 

That  was  about  the  last  I  saw  of  the  regular  army  hospitals. 


HERE  is  a  portrait  of  E.  H.  from  life,  by  Henry  Inman,  in  New 
York,  about  1827  or  '  28.  The  painting  was  finely  copper-plated  in 
1830,  and  the  present  is  a  fac  simile.  Looks  as  I  saw  him  in  the 
following  narrative. 

The  time  was  signalized  by  the  separation  of  the  society  of  Friends, 
so  greatly  talked  of — and  continuing  yet  —  but  so  little  really  ex 
plain*  d.  (All  I  give  of  this  separation  is  in  a  Note  following.) 


NOTES  (such  as  they  are)  founded  on 

ELIAS  HICKS 


'Prefatory  U^pte. —  As  myself  a  little  boy  hearing  so  much  of  E.  H.,  at 
that  time,  long  ago,  in  Suffolk  and  Queens  and  Kings  counties — and 
more  than  once  personally  seeing  the  old  man  —  and  my  dear,  dear  father 
and  mother  faithful  listeners  to  him  at  the  meetings  —  I  remember  how  I 
dream' d  to  write  perhaps  a  piece  about  E.  H.  and  his  look  and  discourses, 
however  long  afterward  —  for  my  parents'  sake  —  and  the  dear  Friends 
too  !  And  the  following  is  what  has  at  last  but  all  come  out  of  it  —  the 
feeling  and  intention  never  forgotten  yet  ! 

There  is  a  sort  of  nature  of  persons  I  have  compared  to  little  rills  of 
water,  fresh,  from  perennial  springs  —  (and  the  comparison  is  indeed  an 
appropriate  one)  —  persons  not  so  very  plenty,  yet  some  few  certainly  of 
them  running  over  the  surface  and  area  of  humanity,  all  times,  all  lands. 
It  is  a  specimen  of  this  class  I  would  now  present.  I  would  sum  up  in 
E.  H.,  and  make  his  case  stand  for  the  class,  the  sort,  in  all  ages,  all  lands, 
sparse,  not  numerous,  yet  enough  to  irrigate  the  soil  —  enough  to  prove  the 
inherent  moral  stock  and  irrepressible  devotional  aspirations  growing  in 
digenously  of  themselves,  always  advancing,  and  never  utterly  gone  under 
or  lost. 

Always  E.  H.  gives  the  service  of  pointing  to  the  fountain  of  all  naked 
theology,  all  religion,  all  worship,  all  the  truth  to  which  you  are  possibly 
eligible  —  namely  in  yourself  and  your  inherent  relations.  Others  talk  of 
Bibles,  saints,  churches,  exhortations,  vicarious  atonements  —  the  canons 
outside  of  yourself  and  apart  from  man  —  E.  H.  to  the  religion  inside  of 
man's  very  own  nature.  This  he  incessantly  labors  to  kindle,  nourish, 
educate,  bring  forward  and  strengthen.  He  is  the  most  democratic  of  the 
religionists — the  prophets. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  both  the  curious  fate  and  death  of  his  four  sons, 
and  the  facts  (and  dwelling  on  them)  of  George  Fox's  strange  early  life, 
and  permanent  "conversion,"  had  much  to  do  with  the  peculiar  and 
sombre  ministry  and  style  of  E.  H.  from  the  first,  and  confirmed  him  all 
through.  One  must  not  be  dominated  by  the  man's  almost  absurd  satura 
tion  in  cut  and  dried  biblical  phraseology,  and  in  ways,  talk,  and  standard, 
regardful  mainly  of  the  one  need  he  dwelt  on,  above  all  the  rest.  This 
main  need  he  drove  home  to  the  soul  ;  the  canting  and  sermonizing  soon 
exhale  away  to  any  auditor  that  realizes  what  E.  H.  is  for  and  after.  The 
present  paper,  (a  broken  memorandum  of  his  formation,  his  earlier  life,)  is 


458  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  cross-notch  that  rude  wanderers  make  in  the  woods,  to  remind  them 
afterward  of  some  matter  of  first-rate  importance  and  full  investigation. 
(Remember  too,  that  E.  H.  was  a  thorough  believer  in  the  Hebrew  Scriptures, 
in  his  way.) 

The  following  are  really  but  disjointed  fragments  recall'  d  to  serve  and 
eke  out  here  the  lank  printed  pages  of  what  I  commenc'd  unwittingly  two 
months  ago.  Now,  as  I  am  well  in  for  it,  conies  an  old  attack,  the  sixth 
or  seventh  recurrence,  of  my  war-paralysis,  dulling  me  from  putting  the 
notes  in  shape,  and  threatening  any  further  action,  head  or  body. 

W.  IV.,  Camden,  ^.f.,fuly,  1888. 


To  BEGIN  with,  my  theme  is  comparatively  featureless.  The  great 
historian  has  pass'd  by  the  life  of  Elias  Hicks  quite  without  glance  or 
touch.  Yet  a  man  might  commence  and  overhaul  it  as  furnishing  one 
of  the  amplest  historic  and  biography's  backgrounds.  While  the  fore 
most  actors  and  events  from  1750  to  1830  both  in  Europe  and 
America  were  crowding  each  other  on  the  world's  stage  —  While  so 
many  kings,  queens,  soldiers,  philosophs,  musicians,  voyagers,  littera 
teurs,  enter  one  side,  cross  the  boards,  and  disappear  —  amid  loudest 
reverberating  names  —  Frederick  the  Great,  Swedenborg,  Junius, 
Voltaire,  Rousseau,  Linnaeus,  Herschel  —  curiously  contemporary 
with  the  long  life  of  Goethe  —  through  the  occupancy  of  the  British 
throne  by  George  the  Third  —  amid  stupendous  visible  political  and 
social  revolutions,  and  far  more  stupendous  invisible  moral  ones  — 
while  the  many  quarto  volumes  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Fran9aise  are 
being  published  at  fits  and  intervals,  by  Diderot,  in  Paris  —  while 
Haydn  and  Beethoven  and  Mozart  and  Weber  are  working  out  their 
harmonic  compositions  —  while  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Talma  and  Kean 
are  acting  —  while  Mungo  Park  explores  Africa,  and  Capt.  Cook 
circumnavigates  the  globe  —  through  all  the  fortunes  of  the  American 
Revolution,  the  beginning,  continuation  and  end,  the  battle  of  Brook 
lyn,  the  surrender  at  Saratoga,  the  final  peace  of  '83  —  through  the 
lurid  tempest  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  execution  of  the  king  and 
queen,  and  the  Reign  of  Terror  —  through  the  whole  of  the  meteor- 
career  of  Napoleon  —  through  all  Washington's,  Adams's,  Jefferson's, 
Madison's,  and  Monroe's  Presidentiads  —  amid  so  many  flashing  lists 
of  names,  (indeed  there  seems  hardly,  in  any  department,  any  end  to 
them,  Old  World  or  New,)  Franklin,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Mira- 
beau,  Fox,  Nelson,  Paul  Jones,  Kant,  Fichte,  and  Hegel,  Fulton, 
Walter  Scott,  Byron,  Mesmer,  Champollion  —  Amid  pictures  that 
dart  upon  me  even  as  I  speak,  and  glow  and  mix  and  coruscate  and 
fade  like  aurora  boreales  —  Louis  the  i6th  threaten'  d  by  the  mob,  the 
trial  of  Warren  Hastings,  the  death-bed  of  Robert  Burns,  Wellington 
at  Waterloo,  Decatur  capturing  the  Macedonian,  or  the  sea-fight 
between  the  Chesapeake  and  the  Shannon  —  During  all  these  whiles, 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  459 

I  say,  and  though  on  a  far  different  grade,  running  parallel  and  con 
temporary  with  all  —  a  curious,  quiet  yet  busy  life  centred  in  a  little 
country  village  on  Long  Island,  and  within  sound  on  still  nights  of 
the  mystic  surf-beat  of  the  sea.  About  this  life,  this  Personality  — 
neither  soldier,  nor  scientist,  nor  litterateur  —  I  propose  to  occupy  a 
few  minutes  in  fragmentary  talk,  to  give  some  few  melanges,  discon 
nected  impressions,  statistics,  resultant  groups,  pictures,  thoughts  of 
him,  or  radiating  from  him. 

Elias  Hicks  was  born  March  19,  1748,  in  Hempstead  township, 
Queens  county,  Long  Island,  New  York  State,  near  a  village  bearing 
the  old  Scripture  name  of  Jericho,  (a  mile  or  so  north  and  east  of  the 
present  Hicksville,  on  the  L.  I.  Railroad.)  His  father  and  mother 
were  Friends,  of  that  class  working  with  their  own  hands,  and  mark'd 
by  neither  riches  nor  actual  poverty.  Elias  as  a  child  and  youth  had 
smaK  education  from  letters,  but  largely  learn' d  from  Nature's  school 
ing.  He  grew  up  even  in  his  ladhood  a  thorough  gunner  and  fisher 
man.  The  farm  of  his  parents  lay  on  the  south  or  sea-shore  side  of 
Long  Island,  (they  had  early  removed  from  Jericho,)  one  of  the  best 
regions  in  the  world  for  wild  fowl  and  for  fishing.  Elias  became  a 
good  horseman,  too,  and  knew  the  animal  well,  riding  races  ;  also  a 
singer  fond  of  "vain  songs,"  as  he  afterwards  calls  them  ;  a  dancer, 
too,  at  the  country  balls.  When  a  boy  of  1 3  he  had  gone  to  live 
with  an  elder  brother  ;  and  when  about  1 7  he  changed  again  and 
went  as  apprentice  to  the  carpenter's  trade.  The  time  of  all  this  was 
before  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  the  locality  30  to  40  miles  from 
New  York  city.  My  great-grandfather,  Whitman,  was  often  with 
Elias  at  these  periods,  and  at  merry-makings  and  sleigh-rides  in  winter 
over  "  the  plains." 

How  well  I  remember  the  region  —  the  flat  plains  of  the  middle  of 
Long  Island,  as  then,  with  their  prairie-like  vistas  and  grassy  patches 
in  every  direction,  and  the  *  kill-calf  and  herds  of  cattle  and  sheep. 
Then  the  South  Bay  and  shores  and  the  salt  meadows,  and  the  sedgy 
smell,  and  numberless  little  bayous  and  hummock-islands  in  the  waters, 
the  habitat  of  every  sort  of  fish  and  aquatic  fowl  of  North  America. 
And  the  bay  men  —  a  strong,  wild,  peculiar  race  —  now  extinct,  or 
rather  entirely  changed.  And  the  beach  outside  the  sandy  bars, 
sometimes  many  miles  at  a  stretch,  with  their  old  history  of  wrecks 
and  storms  —  the  weird,  white-gray  beach  —  not  without  its  tales  of 
pathos  —  tales,  too,  of  grandest  heroes  and  heroisms. 

In  such  scenes  and  elements  and  influences  —  in  the  midst  of 
Nature  and  along  the  shores  of  the  sea  —  Elias  Hicks  was  fashion* d 
through  boyhood  and  early  manhood,  to  maturity.  But  a  moral  and 
mental  and  emotional  change  was  imminent.  Along  at  this  time  he 
says : 


460  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

My  apprenticeship  being  now  expir'd,  I  gradually  withdrew  from  the 
company  of  my  former  associates,  became  more  acquainted  with  Friends, 
and  was  more  frequent  in  my  attendance  of  meetings  ;  and  although  this 
was  in  some  degree  profitable  to  me,  yet  I  made  but  slow  progress  in  my 
religious  improvement.  The  occupation  of  part  of  my  time  in  fishing  and 
fowling  had  frequently  tended  to  preserve  me  from  falling  into  hurtful 
associations  j  but  through  the  rising  intimations  and  reproofs  of  divine 
grace  in  my  heart,  I  now  began  to  feel  that  the  manner  in  which  I  some 
times  amus'd  myself  with  my  gun  was  not  without  sin  ;  for  although  I 
mostly  preferred  going  alone,  and  while  waiting  in  stillness  for  the  coming 
of  the  fowl,  my  mind  was  at  times  so  taken  up  in  divine  meditations,  that 
the  opportunities  were  seasons  of  instruction  and  comfort  to  me ;  yet,  on 
other  occasions,  when  accompanied  by  some  of  my  acquaintances,  and 
when  no  fowls  appear' d  which  would  be  useful  to  us  after  being  obtained, 
we  sometimes,  from  wantonness  or  for  mere  diversion,  would  destroy  the 
small  birds  which  could  be  of  no  service  to  us.  This  cruel  procedure 
affects  my  heart  while  penning  these  lines. 

In  his  23d  year  Elias  was  married,  by  the  Friends'  ceremony,  to 
Jemima  Seaman.  His  wife  was  an  only  child  ;  the  parents  were  well 
off  for  common  people,  and  at  their  request  the  son-in-law  mov'd 
home  with  them  and  carried  on  the  farm  —  which  at  their  decease 
became  his  own,  and  he  liv'd  there  all  his  remaining  life.  Of  this 
matrimonial  part  of  his  career,  (it  continued,  and  with  unusual  happi 
ness,  for  58  years,)  he  says,  giving  the  account  of  his  marriage  : 

On  this  important  occasion,  we  felt  the  clear  and  consoling  evidence  of 
divine  truth,  and  it  remain' d  with  us  as  a  seal  upon  our  spirits,  strengthen 
ing  us  mutually  to  bear,  with  becoming  fortitude,  the  vicissitudes  and  trials 
which  fell  to  our  lot,  and  of  which  we  had  a  large  share  in  passing  through 
this  probationary  state.  My  wife,  although  not  of  a  very  strong  constitution, 
liv'd  to  be  the  mother  of  eleven  children,  four  sons  and  seven  daughters. 
Our  second  daughter,  a  very  lovely,  promising  child,  died  when  young, 
with  the  small-pox,  and  the  youngest  was  not  living  at  its  birth.  The  rest 
all  arriv'd  to  years  of  discretion,  and  afforded  us  considerable  comfort,  as 
they  prov'd  to  be  in  a  good  degree  dutiful  children.  All  our  sons,  how 
ever,  were  of  weak  constitutions,  and  were  not  able  to  take  care  of  them 
selves,  being  so  enfeebl'd  as  not  to  be  able  to  walk  after  the  ninth  or  tenth 
year  of  their  age.  The  two  eldest  died  in  the  fifteenth  year  of  their  age, 
the  third  in  his  seventeenth  year,  and  the  youngest  was  nearly  nineteen 
when  he  died.  But,  although  thus  helpless,  the  innocency  of  their  lives, 
and  the  resign' d  cheerfulness  of  their  dispositions  to  their  allotments,  made 
the  labor  and  toil  of  taking  care  of  them  agreeable  and  pleasant  j  and  I  trust 
we  were  preserv'd  from  murmuring  or  repining,  believing  the  dispensation 
to  be  in  wisdom,  and  according  to  the  will  and  gracious  disposing  of  an 
all-wise  providence,  for  purposes  best  known  to  himself.  And  when  I  have 
observ'd  the  great  anxiety  and  affliction  which  many  parents  have  with 
undutiful  children  who  are  favor' d  with  health,  especially  their  sons,  I  could 
perceive  very  few  whose  troubles  and  exercises,  on  that  account,  did  not  far 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  461 

exceed  ours.  The  weakness  and  bodily  infirmity  of  our  sons  tended  to 
keep  them  much  out  of  the  way  of  the  troubles  and  temptations  of  the 
world  ;  and  we  believ'd  that  in  their  death  they  were  happy,  and  admitted 
into  the  realms  of  peace  and  joy  :  a  reflection,  the  most  comfortable  and 
joyous  that  parents  can  have  in  regard  to  their  tender  offspring. 

Of  a  serious  and  reflective  turn,  by  nature,  and  from  his  reading 
and  surroundings,  Elias  had  more  than  once  markedly  devotional  in 
ward  intimations.  These  feelings  increas'd  in  frequency  and  strength, 
until  soon  the  following  : 

About  the  twenty-sixth  year  of  my  age  I  was  again  brought,  by  the  opera 
tive  influence  of  divine  grace,  under  deep  concern  of  mind ;  and  was  led, 
through  adorable  mercy,  to  see,  that  although  I  had  ceas'd  from  many  sins 
and  vanities  of  my  youth,  yet  there  were  many  remaining  that  I  was  still 
guilty  of,  which  were  not  yet  aton'd  for,  and  for  which  I  now  felt  the  judg 
ments  of  God  to  rest  upon  me.  This  caus'd  me  to  cry  earnestly  to  the 
Most  High  for  pardon  and  redemption,  and  he  graciously  condescended  to 
hear  my  cry,  and  to  open  a  way  before  me,  wherein  I  must  walk,  in  order 
to  experience  reconciliation  with  him  ;  and  as  I  abode  in  watchfulness  and 
deep  humiliation  before  him,  light  broke  forth  out  of  obscurity,  and  my 
darkness  became  as  the  noon-day.  I  began  to  have  openings  leading  to  the 
ministry,  which  brought  me  under  close  exercise  and  deep  travail  of  spirit ; 
for  although  I  had  for  some  time  spoken  on  subjects  of  business  in  monthly 
and  preparative  meetings,  yet  the  prospect  of  opening  my  mouth  in  public 
meetings  was  a  close  trial ;  but  I  endeavored  to  keep  my  mind  quiet  and 
resigned  to  the  heavenly  call,  if  it  should  be  made  clear  to  me  to  be  my  duty. 
Nevertheless,  as  I  was,  soon  after,  sitting  in  a  meeting,  in  much  weighti- 
ness  of  spirit,  a  secret,  though  clear,  intimation  accompanied  me  to  speak 
a  few  words,  which  were  then  given  to  me  to  utter,  yet  fear  so  prevail' d, 
that  I  did  not  yield  to  the  intimation.  For  this  omission,  I  felt  close  re 
buke,  and  judgment  seem' d,  for  some  time,  to  cover  my  mind  ;  but  as  I 
humbl'd  myself  under  the  Lord's  mighty  hand,  he  again  lifted  up  the  light 
of  his  countenance  upon  me,  and  enabl'd  me  to  renew  covenant  with  him, 
that  if  he  would  pass  by  this  my  offence,  I  would,  in  future,  be  faithful,  if 
he  should  again  require  such  a  service  of  me. 

The  Revolutionary  War  following,  tried  the  sect  of  Friends  more 
than  any.  The  difficulty  was  to  steer  between  their  convictions  as 
patriots,  and  their  pledges  of  non-warring  peace.  Here  is  the  way 
they  solv'd  the  problem: 

A  war,  with  all  its  cruel  and  destructive  effects,  having  raged  for  several 
years  between  the  British  Colonies  in  North  America  and  the  mother  coun 
try,  Friends,  as  well  as  others,  were  expos' d  to  many  severe  trials  and  suf 
ferings  ;  yet,  in  the  colony  of  New  York,  Friends,  who  stood  faithful  to 
their  principles,  and  did  not  meddle  in  the  controversy,  had,  after  a  short 
period  at  first,  considerable  favor  allow' d  them.  The  yearly  meeting  was 
held  steadily,  during  the  war,  on  Long  Island,  where  the  king's  party  had 
the  rule  j  yet  Friends  from  the  Main,  where  the  American  army  ruled,  had 


462  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

free  passage  through  both  armies  to  attend  it,  and  any  other  meetings  they 
were  desirous  of  attending,  except  in  a  few  instances.  This  was  a  favor 
which  the  parties  would  not  grant  to  their  best  friends,  who  were  of  a  war 
like  disposition  ;  which  shows  what  great  advantages  would  redound  to 
mankind,  were  they  all  of  this  pacific  spirit.  I  pass'd  myself  through  the 
lines  of  both  armies  six  times  during  the  war,  without  molestation,  both 
parties  generally  receiving  me  with  openness  and  civility ;  and  although  I 
had  to  pass  over  a  tract  of  country,  between  the  two  armies,  sometimes  more 
than  thirty  miles  in  extent,  and  which  was  much  frequented  by  robbers,  a 
set,  in  general,  of  cruel,  unprincipled  banditti,  issuing  out  from  both  parties, 
yet,  excepting  once,  I  met  with  no  interruption  even  from  them.  But  al 
though  Friends  in  general  experienced  many  favors  and  deliverances,  yet 
those  scenes  of  war  and  confusion  occasioned  many  trials  and  provings  in 
various  ways  to  the  faithful.  One  circumstance  I  am  willing  to  mention, 
as  it  caus'd  me  considerable  exercise  and  concern.  There  was  a  large  cellar 
under  the  new  meeting-house  belonging  to  Friends  in  New  York,  which 
was  generally  let  as  a  store.  When  the  king' s  troops  enter'  d  the  city,  they 
took  possession  of  it  for  the  purpose  of  depositing  their  warlike  stores  ;  and 
ascertaining  what  Friends  had  the  care  of  letting  it,  their  commissary  came 
forward  and  offer' d  to  pay  the  rent  j  and  those  Friends,  for  want  of  due 
consideration,  accepted  it.  This  caus'd  great  uneasiness  to  the  concern' d 
part  of  the  Society,  who  apprehended  it  not  consistent  with  our  peaceable 
principles  to  receive  payment  for  the  depositing  of  military  stores  in  our 
houses.  The  subject  was  brought  before  the  yearly  meeting  in  1779,  and 
engag'd  its  careful  attention j  but  those  Friends,  who  had  been  active  in  the 
reception  of  the  money,  and  some  few  others,  were  not  willing  to  acknowl 
edge  their  proceedings  to  be  inconsistent,  nor  to  return  the  money  to  those 
from  whom  it  was  receiv'  d  ;  and  in  order  to  justify  themselves  therein,  they 
referr'  d  to  the  conduct  of  Friends  in  Philadelphia  in  similar  cases.  Matters 
thus  appearing  very  difficult  and  embarrassing,  it  was  unitedly  concluded  to 
refer  the  final  determination  thereof  to  the  yearly  meeting  of  Pennsylvania  ; 
and  several  Friends  were  appointed  to  attend  that  meeting  in  relation  thereto, 
among  whom  I  was  one  of  the  number.  We  accordingly  set  out  on  the  9th 
day  of  the  9th  month,  1779,  and  I  was  accompanied  from  home  by  my  be 
loved  friend  John  Willis,  who  was  likewise  on  the  appointment.  We  took 
a  solemn  leave  of  our  families,  they  feeling  much  anxiety  at  parting  with  us, 
on  account  of  the  dangers  we  were  expos' d  to,  having  to  pass  not  only  the 
lines  of  the  two  armies,  but  the  deserted  and  almost  uninhabited  country 
that  lay  between  them,  in  many  places  the  grass  being  grown  up  in  the 
streets,  and  many  houses  desolate  and  empty.  Believing  it,  however,  my 
duty  to  proceed  in  the  service,  my  mind  was  so  settled  and  trust-fix' d  in 
the  divine  arm  of  power,  that  faith  seem'd  to  banish  all  fear,  and  cheerful 
ness  and  quiet  resignation  were,  I  believe,  my  constant  companions  during 
the  journey.  We  got  permission,  with  but  little  difficulty,  to  pass  the 
outguards  of  the  king's  army  at  Kingsbridge,  and  proceeded  to  West- 
chester.  We  afterwards  attended  meetings  at  Harrison's  Purchase,  and 
Oblong,  having  the  concurrence  of  our  monthly  meeting  to  take  some 
meetings  in  our  way,  a  concern  leading  thereto  having  for  some  time  pre 
viously  attended  my  mind.  We  pass'  d  from  thence  to  Nine  Partners,  and 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  463 

attended  their  monthly  meeting,  and  then  turn'd  our  faces  towards  Phila 
delphia,  being  join'd  by  several  others  of  the  Committee.  We  attended 
New  Marlborough,  Hardwick,  and  Kingswood  meetings  on  our  journey, 
and  arriv'd  at  Philadelphia  on  the  yth  day  of  the  week,  and  zfth  of  9th 
month,  on  which  day  we  attended  the  yearly  meeting  of  Ministers  and 
Elders,  which  began  at  the  eleventh  hour.  I  also  attended  all  the  sittings 
of  the  yearly  meeting  until  the  4th  day  of  the  next  week,  and  was  then  so 
indispos'd  with  a  fever,  which  had  been  increasing  on  me  for  several  days, 
that  I  was  not  able  to  attend  after  that  time.  I  was  therefore  not  present 
when  the  subject  was  discuss' d,  which  came  from  our  yearly  meeting  ;  but 
I  was  inform' d  by  my  companion,  that  it  was  a  very  solemn  opportunity, 
and  the  matter  was  resulted  in  advising  that  the  money  should  be  return' d 
into  the  office  from  whence  it  was  receiv'd,  accompanied  with  our  reasons 
for  so  doing  :  and  this  was  accordingly  done  by  the  direction  of  our  yearly 
meeting  the  next  year. 

Then,  season  after  season,  when  peace  and  Independence  reign' d, 
year  following  year,  this  remains  to  be  (1791)  a  specimen  of  his 
personal  labors: 

I  was  from  home  on  this  journey  four  months  and  eleven  days  j  rode 
about  one  thousand  five  hundred  miles,  and  attended  forty-nine  particular 
meetings  among  Friends,  three  quarterly  meetings,  six  monthly  meetings, 
and  forty  meetings  among  other  people. 

And  again  another  experience: 

In  the  forepart  of  this  meeting,  my  mind  was  reduced  into  such  a  state 
of  great  weakness  and  depression,  that  my  faith  was  almost  ready  to  fail, 
which  produc'd  great  searchings  of  heart,  so  that  I  was  led  to  call  in  ques 
tion  all  that  I  had  ever  before  experienc'd.  In  this  state  of  doubting,  I 
was  ready  to  wish  myself  at  home,  from  an  apprehension  that  I  should  only 
expose  myself  to  reproach,  and  wound  the  cause  I  was  embark' d  in  j  for 
the  heavens  seem' d  like  brass,  and  the  earth  as  iron;  such  coldness  and 
hardness,  I  thought,  could  scarcely  have  ever  been  experienc'd  before  by 
any  creature,  so  great  was  the  depth  of  my  baptism  at  this  time  ;  neverthe 
less,  as  I  endeavor' d  to  quiet  my  mind,  in  this  conflicting  dispensation,  and 
be  resign' d  to  my  allotment,  however  distressing,  towards  the  latter  part  of 
the  meeting  a  ray  of  light  broke  through  the  surrounding  darkness,  in 
which  the  Shepherd  of  Israel  was  pleas' d  to  arise,  and  by  the  light  of  his 
glorious  countenance,  to  scatter  those  clouds  of  opposition.  Then  ability 
was  receiv'd,  and  utterance  given,  to  speak  of  his  marvellous  works  in  the 
redemption  of  souls,  and  to  open  the  way  of  life  and  salvation,  and  the 
mysteries  of  his  glorious  kingdom,  which  are  hid  from  the  wise  and  prudent 
of  this  world,  and  reveal' d  only  unto  those  who  are  reduc'd  into  the  state 
of  little  children  and  babes  in  Christ. 

And  concluding  another  jaunt  in  I  794: 

I  was  from  home  in  this  journey  about  five  months,  and  travell'd  by 
land  and  water  about  two  thousand  two  hundred  and  eighty-three  miles  j 
having  visited  all  the  meetings  of  Friends  in  the  New  England  states,  and 
31 


464  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

many  meetings  amongst  those  of  other  professions  ;  and  also  visited  many 
meetings,  among  Friends  and  others,  in  the  upper  part  of  our  own  yearly 
meeting  j  and  found  real  peace  in  my  labors. 

Another  'tramp*  in  1798: 

I  was  absent  from  home  in  this  journey  about  five  months  and  two 
weeks,  and  rode  about  sixteen  hundred  miles,  and  attended  about  one  hun 
dred  and  forty-three  meetings. 

Here  are  some  memoranda  of  1813,  near  home: 

First  day.  Our  meeting  this  day  pass'd  in  silent  labor.  The  cloud 
rested  on  the  tabernacle  j  and,  although  it  was  a  day  of  much  rain  out 
wardly,  yet  very  little  of  the  dew  of  Hermon  appeared  to  distil  among  us. 
Nevertheless,  a  comfortable  cairn  was  witnessed  towards  the  close,  which 
we  must  render  to  the  account  of  unmerited  mercy  and  love. 

Second  day.  Most  of  this  day  was  occupied  in  a  visit  to  a  sick  friend, 
who  appeared  comforted  therewith.  Spent  part  of  the  evening  in  reading 
part  of  Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans. 

Third  day.  I  was  busied  most  of  this  day  in  my  common  vocations. 
Spent  the  evening  principally  in  reading  Paul.  Found  considerable  satis 
faction  in  his  first  epistle  to  the  Corinthians  j  in  which  he  shows  the  danger 
of  some  in  setting  too  high  a  value  on  those  who  were  instrumental  in 
bringing  them  to  the  knowledge  of  the  truth,  without  looking  through  and 
beyond  the  instrument,  to  the  great  first  cause  and  Author  of  every  blessing, 
to  whom  all  the  praise  and  honor  are  due. 

Fifth  day,  i  st  of  4th  month.  At  our  meeting  to-day  found  it,  as  usual, 
a  very  close  steady  exercise  to  keep  the  mind  center'  d  where  it  ought  to  be. 
What  a  multitude  of  intruding  thoughts  imperceptibly,  as  it  were,  steal  into 
the  mind,  and  turn  it  from  its  proper  object,  whenever  it  relaxes  its  vigilance 
in  watching  against  them.  Felt  a  little  strength,  just  at  the  close,  to  remind 
Friends  of  the  necessity  of  a  steady  perseverance,  by  a  recapitulation  of  the 
parable  of  the  unjust  judge,  showing  how  men  ought  always  to  pray,  and 
not  to  faint. 

Sixth  day.  Nothing  material  occurred,  but  a  fear  lest  the  cares  of  the 
world  should  engross  too  much  of  my  time. 

Seventh  day.  Had  an  agreeable  visit  from  two  ancient  friends,  whom  I 
have  long  lov'  d.  The  rest  of  the  day  I  employ'  d  in  manual  labor,  mostly 
in  gardening. 

But  we  find  if  we  attend  to  records  and  details,  we  shall  lay  out 
an  endless  task.  We  can  briefly  say,  summarily,  that  his  whole  life 
was  a  long  religious  missionary  life  of  method,  practicality,  sincerity, 
earnestness,  and  pure  piety  —  as  near  to  his  time  here,  as  one  in  Judea, 
far  back  —  or  in  any  life,  any  age.  The  reader  who  feels  interested 
must  get  —  with  all  its  dryness  and  mere  dates,  absence  of  emotion 
ality  or  literary  quality,  and  whatever  abstract  attraction  (with  even  a 
suspicion  of  cant,  sniffling,)  the  "Journal  of  the  Life  and  Religious 
Labours  of  Elias  Hicks,  written  by  himself,"  at  some  Quaker  book- 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  465 

store.  (It  is  from  this  headquarters  I  have  extracted  the  preceding 
quotations.)  During  E.  H.'s  matured  life,  continued  from  fifty  to 
sixty  years  —  while  working  steadily,  earning  his  living  and  paying 
his  way  without  intermission  —  he  makes,  as  previously  memorandized, 
several  hundred  preaching  visits,  not  only  through  Long  Island,  but 
some  of  them  away  into  the  Middle  or  Southern  States,  or  north  into 
Canada,  or  the  then  far  West  —  extending  to  thousands  of  miles,  or 
filling  several  weeks  and  sometimes  months.  These  religious  journeys 
—  scrupulously  accepting  in  payment  only  his  transportation  from 
place  to  place,  with  his  own  food  and  shelter,  and  never  receiving 
a  dollar  of  money  for  "salary"  or  preaching  —  Elias,  through  good 
bodily  health  and  strength,  continues  till  quite  the  age  of  eighty.  It 
was  thus  at  one  of  his  latest  jaunts  in  Brooklyn  city  I  saw  and  heard 
him.  This  sight  and  hearing  shall  now  be  described. 

Elias  Hicks  was  at  this  period  in  the  latter  part  (November  or 
December)  of  1829.  It  was  the  last  tour  of  the  many  missions  of 
the  old  man's  life.  He  was  in  the  8ist  year  of  his  age,  and  a  few 
months  before  he  had  lost  by  death  a  beloved  wife  with  whom  he  had 
lived  in  unalloyed  affection  and  esteem  for  58  years.  (But  a  few 
months  after  this  meeting  Elias  was  paralyzed  and  died.)  Though  it 
is  sixty  years  ago  since  —  and  I  a  little  boy  at  the  time  in  Brooklyn, 
New  York  —  I  can  remember  my  father  coming  home  toward  sunset 
from  his  day's  work  as  carpenter,  and  saying  briefly,  as  he  throws 
down  his  armful  of  kindling-blocks  with  a  bounce  on  the  kitchen  floor, 
'*  Come,  mother,  Elias  preaches  to-night."  Then  my  mother,  hasten 
ing  the  supper  and  the  table-cleaning  afterward,  gets  a  neighboring 
young  woman,  a  friend  of  the  family,  to  step  in  and  keep  house  for  an 
hour  or  so  —  puts  the  two  little  ones  to  bed  —  and  as  I  had  been 
behaving  well  that  day,  as  a  special  reward  I  was  allow' d  to  go  also. 

We  start  for  the  meeting.  Though,  as  I  said,  the  stretch  of  more 
than  half  a  century  has  pass'd  over  me  since  then,  with  its  war  and 
peace,  and  all  its  joys  and  sins  and  deaths  (and  what  a  half  century ! 
how  it  comes  up  sometimes  for  an  instant,  like  the  lightning  flash  in  a 
storm  at  night!)  I  can  recall  that  meeting  yet.  It  is  a  strange  place 
for  religious  devotions.  Elias  preaches  anywhere  —  no  respect  to  build 
ings —  private  or  public  houses,  school-rooms,  barns,  even  theatres — 
anything  that  will  accommodate.  This  time  it  is  in  a  handsome  ball 
room,  on  Brooklyn  Heights,  overlooking  New  York,  and  in  full  sight 
of  that  great  city,  and  its  North  and  East  rivers  fill'd  with  ships — is 
(to  specify  more  particularly)  the  second  story  of"  Morrison's  Hotel," 
used  for  the  most  genteel  concerts,  balls,  and  assemblies  —  a  large, 
cheerful,  gay-color* d  room,  with  glass  chandeliers  bearing  myriads  of 
sparkling  pendants,  plenty  of  settees  and  chairs,  and  a  sort  of  velvet 
divan  running  all  round  the  side-walls.  Before  long  the  divan  and  al) 


466  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

the  settees  and  chairs  are  fill'd;  many  fashionables  out  of  curiosity; 
all  the  principal  dignitaries  of  the  town,  Gen.  Jeremiah  Johnson,  Judge 
Furman,  George  Hall,  Mr.  Willoughby,  Mr.  Pierrepont,  N.  B. 
Morse,  Cyrus  P.  Smith,  and  F.  C.  Tucker.  Many  young  folks  too; 
some  richly  dress' d  women;  I  remember  I  noticed  with  one  party  of 
ladies  a  group  of  uniform' d  officers,  either  from  the  U.  S.  Navy  Yard, 
or  some  ship  in  the  stream,  or  some  adjacent  fort.  On  a  slightly 
elevated  platform  at  the  head  of  the  room,  facing  the  audience,  sit  a 
dozen  or  more  Friends,  most  of  them  elderly,  grim,  and  with  their 
broad-brimm'd  hats  on  their  heads.  Three  or  four  women,  too,  in 
their  characteristic  Quaker  costumes  and  bonnets.  All  still  as  the 
grave. 

At  length  after  a  pause  and  stillness  becoming  almost  painful,  Elias 
rises  and  stands  for  a  moment  or  two  without  a  word.  A  tall,  straight 
figure,  neither  stout  nor  very  thin,  dress' d  in  drab  cloth,  clean-shaved 
face,  forehead  of  great  expanse,  and  large  and  clear  black  eyes,*  long 
or  middling-long  white  hair ;  he  was  at  this  time  between  80  and 
8 1  years  of  age,  his  head  still  wearing  the  broad-brim.  A  moment 
looking  around  the  audience  with  those  piercing  eyes,  amid  the  perfect 
stillness.  (I  can  almost  see  him  and  the  whole  scene  now.)  Then 
the  words  come  from  his  lips,  very  emphatically  and  slowly  pro- 
nounc'd,  in  a  resonant,  grave,  melodious  voice,  What  is  the  chief  end 
of  man  ?  I  was  told  in  my  early  youth,  /'/  was  to  glorify  God,  and  seek 
and  enjoy  him  forever. 

I  cannot  follow  the  discourse.  It  presently  becomes  very  fervid, 
and  in  the  midst  of  its  fervor  he  takes  the  broad-brim  hat  from  his 
head,  and  almost  dashing  it  down  with  violence  on  the  seat  behind, 
continues  with  uninterrupted  earnestness.  But,  I  say,  I  cannot  repeat, 
hardly  suggest  his  sermon.  Though  the  differences  and  disputes  of  the 
formal  division  of  the  Society  of  Friends  were  even  then  under  way, 
he  did  not  allude  to  them  at  all.  A  pleading,  tender,  nearly  agoniz 
ing  conviction,  and  magnetic  stream  of  natural  eloquence,  before 
which  all  minds  and  natures,  all  emotions,  high  or  low,  gentle  or 
simple,  yielded  entirely  without  exception,  was  its  cause,  method, 
and  effect.  Many,  very  many  were  in  tears.  Years  afterward  in  Bos 
ton,  I  heard  Father  Taylor,  the  sailor's  preacher,  and  found  in  his 
passionate  unstudied  oratory  the  resemblance  to  Elias  Hicks' s  —  not 
argumentative  or  intellectual,  but  so  penetrating  —  so  different  from 
anything  in  the  books  —  (different  as  the  fresh  air  of  a  May  morning 
or  sea-shore  breeze  from  the  atmosphere  of  a  perfumer's  shop.) 

*In  Walter  Scott's  reminiscences  he  speaks  of  Burns  as  having  the  most 
eloquent,  glowing,  flashing,  illuminated  dark-orbed  eyes  he  ever  beheld  in 
a  human  face  j  and  I  think  Elias  Hicks'  s  must  have  been  like  them. 


NOVEMBER   BOUGHS  467 

While  he  goes  on  he  falls  into  the  nasality  and  sing-song  tone  some 
times  heard  in  such  meetings  ;  but  in  a  moment  or  two  more  as  if 
recollecting  himself,  he  breaks  off,  stops,  and  resumes  in  a  natural 
tone.  This  occurs  three  or  four  times  during  the  talk  of  the  evening, 
till  all  concludes. 

Now  and  then,  at  the  many  scores  and  hundreds  —  even  thou 
sands  —  of  his  discourses  —  as  at  this  one  —  he  was  very  mystical  and 
radical,*  and  had  much  to  say  of  "  the  light  within."  Very  likely 
this  same  inner  light,  (so  dwelt  upon  by  newer  men,  as  by  Fox  and 
Barclay  at  the  beginning,  and  all  Friends  and  deep  thinkers  since  and 
now,)  is  perhaps  only  another  name  for  the  religious  conscience.  In 
my  opinion  they  have  all  diagnos'd,  like  superior  doctors,  the  real  in 
most  disease  of  our  times,  probably  any  times.  Amid  the  huge  in 
flammation  caird  society,  and  that  other  inflammation  call'd  politics, 
what  is  there  to-day  of  moral  power  and  ethic  sanity  as  antiseptic  to 
them  and  all  ?  Though  I  think  the  essential  elements  of  the  moral 
nature  exist  latent  in  the  good  average  people  of  the  United  States 
of  to-day,  and  sometimes  break  out  strongly,  it  is  certain  that  any 
mark'd  or  dominating  National  Morality  (if  I  may  use  the  phrase) 
has  not  only  not  yet  been  develop' d,  but  that  —  at  any  rate  when  the 
point  of  view  is  turn'd  on  business,  politics,  competition,  practical  life, 
and  in  character  and  manners  in  our  New  World  —  there  seems  to 
be  a  hideous  depletion,  almost  absence,  of  such  moral  nature.  Elias 
taught  throughout,  as  George  Fox  began  it,  or  rather  reiterated  and 
verified  it,  the  Platonic  doctrine  that  the  ideals  of  character,  of  justice, 
of  religious  action,  whenever  the  highest  is  at  stake,  are  to  be  con- 
form'd  to  no  outside  doctrine  of  creeds,  Bibles,  legislative  enactments, 
conventionalities,  or  even  decorums,  but  are  to  follow  the  inward 
Deity-planted  law  of  the  emotional  soul.  In  this  only  the  true 
Quaker,  or  Friend,  has  faith;  and  it  is  from  rigidly,  perhaps  strain- 

*The  true  Christian  religion,  (such  was  the  teaching  of  Elias  Hicks,) 
consists  neither  in  rites  or  Bibles  or  sermons  or  Sundays  —  but  in  noiseless 
secret  ecstasy  and  unremitted  aspiration,  in  purity,  in  a  good  practical  life, 
in  charity  to  the  poor  and  toleration  to  all.  He  said,  "  A  man  may  keep 
the  Sabbath,  may  belong  to  a  church  and  attend  all  the  observances,  have 
regular  family  prayer,  keep  a  well-bound  copy  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  in 
a  conspicuous  place  in  his  house,  and  yet  not  be  a  truly  religious  person  at 
all."  E.  believ'd  little  in  a  church  as  organized — even  his  own  —  with 
houses,  ministers,  or  with  salaries,  creeds,  Sundays,  saints,  Bibles,  holy 
festivals,  &c.  But  he  believ'd  always  in  the  universal  church,  in  the  soul 
of  man,  invisibly  rapt,  ever-waiting,  ever-responding  to  universal  truths.  — 
He  was  fond  of  pithy  proverbs.  He  said,  "It  matters  not  where  you  live, 
but  how  you  live."  He  said  once  to  my  father,  "  They  talk  of  the  devil 
—  I  tell  thee,  Walter,  there  is  no  worse  devil  than  man." 


468  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

ingly  carrying  it  out,  that  both  the  Old  and  New  England  records  of 
Quakerdom  show  some  unseemly  and  insane  acts. 

In  one  of  the  lives  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  is  a  list  of  lessons  or 
instructions,  ("  seal'd  orders"  the  biographer  calls  them,)  prepar'd 
by  the  sage  himself  for  his  own  guidance.  Here  is  one  : 

Go  forth  with  thy  message  among  thy  fellow-creatures  ;  teach  them  that 
they  must  trust  themselves  as  guided  by  that  inner  light  which  dwells  with 
the  pure  in  heart,  to  whom  it  was  promis'd  of  old  that  they  shall  see  God. 

How  thoroughly  it  fits  the  life  and  theory  of  Elias  Hicks.  Then  in 
Omar  Khayyam: 

I  sent  my  soul  through  the  Invisible, 

Some  letter  of  that  after-life  to  spell, 
And  by-and-by  my  soul  returned  to  me, 

And  answer' d,  "I  myself  am  Heaven  and  Hell." 

Indeed,  of  this  important  element  of  the  theory  and  practice  of 
Quakerism,  the  difficult-to-describe  "Light  within"  or  "Inward 
Law,  by  which  all  must  be  either  justified  or  condemn'  d,"  I  will  not 
undertake  where  so  many  have  fail'd  —  the  task  of  making  the  state 
ment  of  it  for  the  average  comprehension.  We  will  give,  partly  for 
the  matter  and  partly  as  specimen  of  his  speaking  and  writing  style, 
what  Elias  Hicks  himself  says  in  allusion  to  it  —  one  or  two  of  very 
many  passages.  Most  of  his  discourses,  like  those  of  Epictetus  and 
the  ancient  peripatetics,  have  left  no  record  remaining  —  they  were 
extempore,  and  those  were  not  the  times  of  reporters.  Of  one, 
however,  deliver' d  in  Chester,  Pa.,  toward  the  latter  part  of  his 
career,  there  is  a  careful  transcript  ;  and  from  it  (even  if  presenting 
you  a  sheaf  of  hidden  wheat  that  may  need  to  be  pick'd  and  thrash' d 
out  several  times  before  you  get  the  grain,)  we  give  the  following 
extract : 

I  don't  want  to  express  a  great  many  words  ;  but  I  want  you  to  be 
call'd  home  to  the  substance.  For  the  Scriptures,  and  all  the  books  in 
the  world,  can  do  no  more  ;  Jesus  could  do  no  more  than  to  recommend 
to  this  Comforter,  which  was  the  light  in  him.  "  God  is  light,  and  in 
him  is  no  darkness  at  all ;  and  if  we  walk  in  the  light,  as  he  is  in  the  light, 
we  have  fellowship  one  with  another."  Because  the  light  is  one  in  all, 
and  therefore  it  binds  us  together  in  the  bonds  of  love  ;  for  it  is  not  only 
light,  but  love  —  that  love  which  casts  out  all  fear.  So  that  they  who 
dwell  in  God  dwell  in  love,  and  they  are  constrain' d  to  walk  in  it ;  and  if 
they  "walk  in  it,  they  have  fellowship  one  with  another,  and  the  blood  of 
Jesus  Christ  his  Son  cleanseth  us  from  all  sin." 

But  what  blood,  my  friends  ?  Did  Jesus  Christ,  the  Saviour,  ever  have 
any  material  blood?  Not  a  drop  of  it,  my  friends  —  not  a  drop  of  it. 
That  blood  which  cleanseth  from  the  life  of  all  sin,  was  the  life  of  the  soul 
of  Jesus.  The  soul  of  man  has  no  material  blood  ;  but  as  the  outward 


NOVEMBER   BOUGHS  469 

material  blood,  created  from  the  dust  of  the  earth,  is  the  life  of  these 
bodies  of  flesh,  so  with  respect  to  the  soul,  the  immortal  and  invisible 
spirit,  its  blood  is  that  life  which  God  breath' d  into  it. 

As  we  read,  in  the  beginning,  that  "God  form'd  man  of  the  dust  of 
the  ground,  and  breath' d  into  him  the  breath  of  life,  and  man  became  a 
living  soul."  He  breath' d  into  that  soul,  and  it  became  alive  to  God. 

Then,  from  one  of  his  many  letters,  for  he  seems  to  have  delighted 
in  correspondence  : 

Some  may  query,  What  is  the  cross  of  Christ  ?  To  these  I  answer,  It 
is  the  perfect  law  of  God,  written  on  the  tablet  of  the  heart,  and 
heart  of  every  rational  creature,  in  such  indelible  characters  that  all  the 
power  of  mortals  cannot  erase  nor  obliterate  it.  Neither  is  there  any  power 
or  means  given  or  dispens'd  to  the  children  of  men,  but  this  inward  law 
and  light,  by  which  the  true  and  saving  knowledge  of  God  can  be  obtain' d. 
And  by  this  inward  law  and  light,  all  will  be  either  justified  or  condemn' d, 
and  all  made  to  know  God  for  themselves,  and  be  left  without  excuse, 
agreeably  to  the  prophecy  of  Jeremiah,  and  the  corroborating  testimony  of 
Jesus  in  his  last  counsel  and  command  to  his  disciples,  not  to  depart  from 
Jerusalem  till  they  should  receive  power  from  on  high  ;  assuring  them  that 
they  should  receive  power,  when  they  had  receiv'd  the  pouring  forth  of  the 
spirit  upon  them,  which  would  qualify  them  to  bear  witness  of  him  in 
Judea,  Jerusalem,  Samaria,  and  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  j  which 
was  verified  in  a  marvellous  manner  on  the  day  of  Pentecost,  when  thou 
sands  were  converted  to  the  Christian  faith  in  one  day. 

By  which  it  is  evident  that  nothing  but  this  inward  light  and  law,  as 
it  is  heeded  and  obey'd,  ever  did,  or  ever  can,  make  a  true  and  real  Chris 
tian  and  child  of  God.  And  until  the  professors  of  Christianity  agree  to 
lay  aside  all  their  non-essentials  in  religion,  and  rally  to  this  unchangeable 
foundation  and  standard  of  truth,  wars  and  fightings,  confusion  and  error 
will  prevail,  and  the  angelic  song  cannot  be  heard  in  our  land  —  that  of 
"glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace  and  good  will  to  men." 

But  when  all  nations  are  made  willing  to  make  this  inward  law  and 
light  the  rule  and  standard  of  all  their  faith  and  works,  then  we  shall  be 
brought  to  know  and  believe  alike,  that  there  is  but  one  Lord,  one  faith, 
and  but  one  baptism  ;  one  God  and  Father,  that  is  above  all,  through  all, 

and  in  all.  .   . 

And  then  will  all  those  glorious  and  consoling  prophecies  recorded  in 
the  scriptures  of  truth  be  fulfill'd  —  "  He,"  the  Lord,  "shall  judge  among 
the  nations,  and  shall  rebuke  many  people  ;  and  they  shall  beat  their  swords 
into  ploughshares,  and  their  spears  into  pruning-hooks  j  nation  si 
up  the  sword  against  nation,  neither  shall  they  learn  war  any  more.  The 
wolf  also  shall  dwell  with  the  lamb  ;  and  the  cow  and  the  bear  shall  feed  ; 
and  the  lion  shall  eat  straw  like  the  ox  ;  and  the  sucking  child  shall  play  on 
the  hole  of  the  asp,  and  the  wean'd  child  put  his  hand  on  the  cockatrice's 
den  They  shall  not  hurt  nor  destroy  in  all  my  holy  mountain;  for 
the  earth,"  that  is  our  earthly  tabernacle,  "shall  be  full  of  the  knowledge 
of  the  Lord,  as  the  waters  cover  the  sea/* 


470  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

The  exposition  in  the  last  sentence,  that  the  terms  of  the  texts  are 
not  to  be  taken  in  their  literal  meaning,  but  in  their  spiritual  one,  and 
allude  to  a  certain  wondrous  exaltation  of  the  body,  through  religious 
influences,  is  significant,  and  is  but  one  of  a  great  number  of  instances 
of  much  that  is  obscure,  to  "the  world's  people,"  in  the  preachings 
of  this  remarkable  man. 

Then  a  word  about  his  physical  oratory,  connected  with  the  pre 
ceding.  If  there  is,  as  doubtless  there  is,  an  unnameable  something 
behind  oratory,  a  fund  within  or  atmosphere  without,  deeper  than  art, 
deeper  even  than  proof,  that  unnameable  constitutional  something 
Elias  Hicks  emanated  from  his  very  heart  to  the  hearts  of  his  audience, 
or  carried  with  him,  or  probed  into,  and  shook  and  arous'd  in  them 
—  a  sympathetic  germ,  probably  rapport,  lurking  in  every  human  eligi 
bility,  which  no  book,  no  rule,  no  statement  has  given  or  can  give 
inherent  knowledge,  intuition  —  not  even  the  best  speech,  or  best  put 
forth,  but  launch' d  out  only  by  powerful  human  magnetism  : 

Unheard  by  sharpest  ear  —  unform'd  in  clearest  eye,  or  cunningest  mind, 

Nor  lore,  nor  fame,  nor  happiness,  nor  wealth, 

And  yet  the  pulse  of  every  heart  and  life  throughout  the  world,  incessantly, 

Which  you  and  I,  and  all,  pursuing  ever,  ever  miss  ; 

Open,  but  still  a  secret  —  the  real  of  the  real  —  an  illusion  j 

Costless,  vouchsafed  to  each,  yet  never  man  the  owner ; 

Which  poets  vainly  seek  to  put  in  rhyme  —  historians  in  prose  j 

Which  sculptor  never  chisel' d  yet,  nor  painter  painted  ; 

Which  vocalist  never  sung,  nor  orator  nor  actor  ever  utter' d. 

That  remorse,  too,  for  a  mere  worldly  life — that  aspiration  towards 
the  ideal,  which,  however  overlaid,  lies  folded  latent,  hidden,  in  per- 
haps  every  character.  More  definitely,  as  near  as  I  remember  (aided 
by  my  dear  mother  long  afterward,)  Elias  Hicks's  discourse  there  in' 
the  Brooklyn  ball-room,  was  one  of  his  old  never-remitted  appeals  to 
that  moral  mystical  portion  of  human  nature,  the  inner  light.  But  it  is 
mainly  for  the  scene  itself,  and  Elias' s  personnel,  that  I  recall  the 
incident. 

Soon  afterward  the  old  man  died  : 

On  first  day  morning,  the  i4th  of  ^d  month  (February,  1830,)  he  wa 
engaged  in  his  room,  writing  to  a  friend,  until  a  little  after  ten  o'clock 
when  he  return' d  to  that  occupied  by  the  family,  apparently  just  attack' < 
by  a  paralytic  affection,  which  nearly  deprived  him  of  the  use  of  his  right 
side,  and  of  the  power  of  speech.  Being  assisted  to  a  chair  near  the  fire, 
he  manifested  by  signs,  that  the  letter  which  he  had  just  finish' d,  and  which 
had  been  dropp'd  by  the  way,  should  be  taken  care  of;  and  on  its  being 
brought  to  him,  appear' d  satisfied,  and  manifested  a  desire  that  all  should 
sit  down  and  be  still,  seemingly  sensible  that  his  labours  were  brought  to  a 
close,  and  only  desirous  of  quietly  waiting  the  final  change.  The  solemn 
composure  at  this  time  manifest  in  his  countenance,  was  very  impressive, 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  471 

indicating  that  he  was  sensible  the  time  of  his  departure  was  at  hand,  and 
that  the  prospect  of  death  brought  no  terrors  with  it.  During  his  last  ill 
ness,  his  mental  faculties  were  occasionally  obscured,  yet  he  was  at  times 
enabled  to  give  satisfactory  evidence  to  those  around  him,  that  all  was  well, 
and  that  he  felt  nothing  in  his  way. 

His  funeral  took  place  on  fourth  day,  the  3 d  of  3d  month.  It  was 
attended  by  a  large  concourse  of  Friends  and  others,  and  a  solid  meeting 
was  held  on  the  occasion  j  after  which,  his  remains  were  interr1  d  in  Friends' 
burial-ground  at  this  place  (Jericho,  Queens  county,  New  York.) 

I  have  thought  (even  presented  so  incompletely,  with  such  fearful 
hiatuses,  and  in  my  own  feebleness  and  waning  life)  one  might  well 
memorize  this  life  of  Elias  Hicks.  Though  not  eminent  in  literature 
or  politics  or  inventions  or  business,  it  is  a  token  of  not  a  few,  and 
is  significant.  Such  men  do  not  cope  with  statesmen  or  soldiers  — 
but  I  have  thought  they  deserve  to  be  recorded  and  kept  up  as  a 
sample  —  that  this  one  specially  does.  I  have  already  compared  it 
to  a  little  flowing  liquid  rill  of  Nature's  life,  maintaining  freshness. 
As  if,  indeed,  under  the  smoke  of  battles,  the  blare  of  trumpets,  and 
the  madness  of  contending  hosts  —  the  screams  of  passion,  the  groans 
of  the  suffering,  the  parching  of  struggles  of  money  and  politics,  and 
all  hell's  heat  and  noise  and  competition  above  and  around  —  should 
come  melting  down  from  the  mountains  from  sources  of  unpolluted 
snows,  far  up  there  in  God's  hidden,  untrodden  recesses,  and  so 
rippling  along  among  us  low  in  the  ground,  at  men's  very  feet,  a 
curious  little  brook  of  clear  and  cool,  and  ever-healthy,  ever-living 
water. 

Note. —  The  Separation. — The  division  vulgarly  call'd  between 
Orthodox  and  Hicksites  in  the  Society  of  Friends  took  place  in  1827, 
'8  and  '9.  Probably  it  had  been  preparing  some  time.  One  who 
was  present  has  since  described  to  me  the  climax,  at  a  meeting  of 
Friends  in  Philadelphia  crowded  by  a  great  attendance  of  both 
sexes,  with  Elias  as  principal  speaker.  In  the  course  of  his  utterance 
or  argument  he  made  use  of  these  words  :  "The  blood  of  Christ  — 
the  blood  of  Christ  —  why,  my  friends,  the  actual  blood  of  Christ 
in  itself  was  no  more  effectual  than  the  blood  of  bulls  and  goats  — 
not  a  bit  more  —  not  a  bit."  At  these  words,  after  a  momentary 
hush,  commenced  a  great  tumult.  Hundreds  rose  to  their  feet.  .  .  . 
Canes  were  thump' d  upon  the  floor.  From  all  parts  of  the  house 
angry  mutterings.  Some  left  the  place,  but  more  remained,  with 
exclamations,  flush' d  faces  and  eyes.  This  was  the  definite  utter 
ance,  the  overt  act,  which  led  to  the  separation.  Families  diverg'd 
—  even  husbands  and  wives,  parents  and  children,  were  separated. 

Of  course  what  Elias  promulg'd  spread  a  great  commotion  among 
the  Friends.  Sometimes  when  he  presented  himself  to  speak  in  the 


472  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

meeting,  there  would  be  opposition  —  this  led  to  angry  words, 
gestures,  unseemly  noises,  recriminations.  Elias,  at  such  times,  was 
deeply  affected  —  the  tears  roll' d  in  streams  down  his  cheeks  —  he 
silently  waited  the  close  of  the  dispute.  "  Let  the  Friend  speak ; 
let  the  Friend  speak!"  he  would  say  when  his  supporters  in  the 
meeting  tried  to  bluff  off  some  violent  orthodox  person  objecting  to 
the  new  doctrinaire.  But  he  never  recanted. 

A  reviewer  of  the  old  dispute  and  separation  made  the  following 
comments  on  them  in  a  paper  ten  years  ago:  "It  was  in  America, 
where  there  had  been  no  persecution  worth  mentioning  since  Mary 
Dyer  was  hang'd  on  Boston  Common,  that  about  fifty  years  ago 
differences  arose,  singularly  enough  upon  doctrinal  points  of  the 
divinity  of  Christ  and  the  nature  of  the  atonement.  Whoever  would 
know  how  bitter  was  the  controversy,  and  how  much  of  human 
infirmity  was  found  to  be  still  lurking  under  broad-brim  hats  and 
drab  coats,  must  seek  for  the  information  in  the  Lives  of  Elias  Hicks 
and  of  Thomas  Shillitoe,  the  latter  an  English  Friend,  who  visited 
us  at  this  unfortunate  time,  and  who  exercised  his  gifts  as  a  peace 
maker  with  but  little  success.  The  meetings,  according  to  his  tes 
timony,  were  sometimes  turn'd  into  mobs.  The  disruption  was 
wide,  and  seems  to  have  been  final.  Six  of  the  ten  yearly  meetings 
were  divided ;  and  since  that  time  various  sub-divisions  have  come, 
four  or  five  in  number.  There  has  never,  however,  been  anything 
like  a  repetition  of  the  excitement  of  the  Hicksite  controversy;  and 
Friends  of  all  kinds  at  present  appear  to  have  settled  down  into  a 
solid,  steady,  comfortable  state,  and  to  be  working  in  their  own  way 
without  troubling  other  Friends  whose  ways  are  different." 

Note.  —  Old  persons,  who  heard  this  man  in  his  day,  and  who 
glean* d  impressions  from  what  they  saw  of  him,  (judg'd  from  their 
own  points  of  views,)  have,  in  their  conversation  with  me,  dwelt 
on  another  point.  They  think  Elias  Hicks  had  a  large  element  of 
personal  ambition,  the  pride  of  leadership,  of  establishing  perhaps  a 
sect  that  should  reflect  his  own  name,  and  to  which  he  should  give 
especial  form  and  character.  Very  likely.  Such  indeed  seems  the 
means,  all  through  progress  and  civilization,  by  which  strong  men 
and  strong  convictions  achieve  anything  definite.  But  the  basic  foun 
dation  of  Elias  was  undoubtedly  genuine  religious  fervor.  He  was 
like  an  old  Hebrew  prophet.  He  had  the  spirit  of  one,  and  in  his 
later  years  look'd  like  one.  What  Carlyle  says  of  John  Knox  will 
apply  to  him  : 

He  is  an  instance  to  us  how  a  man,  by  sincerity  itself,  becomes  heroic  ; 
it  is  the  grand  gift  he  has.  We  find  in  him  a  good,  honest,  intellectual 
talent,  no  transcendent  one  ;  —  a  narrow,  inconsiderable  man,  as  compared 
with  Luther  j  but  in  heartfelt  instinctive  adherence  to  truth,  in  sincerity  as 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  473 

we  say,  he  has  no  superior  j  nay,  one  might  ask,  What  equal  he  has  ? 
The  heart  of  him  is  of  the  true  Prophet  cast.  "He  lies  there,"  said  the 
Earl  of  Morton  at  Knox's  grave,  "who  never  fear'd  the  face  of  man."  He 
resembles,  more  than  any  of  the  moderns,  an  old  Hebrew  Prophet.  The 
same  inflexibility,  intolerance,  rigid,  narrow-looking  adherence  to  God's 
truth. 

A  Note  yet.  The  United  States  to-day. —  While  under  all  previous 
conditions  (even  convictions)  of  society,  Oriental,  Feudal,  Ecclesias 
tical,  and  in  all  past  (or  present)  Despotisms,  through  the  entire  past, 
there  existed,  and  exists  yet,  in  ally  and  fusion  with  them,  and  fre 
quently  forming  the  main  part  of  them,  certain  churches,  institutes, 
priesthoods,  fervid  beliefs,  &c.,  practically  promoting  religious  and 
moral  action  to  the  fullest  degrees  of  which  humanity  there  under  cir 
cumstances  was  capable,  and  often  conserving  all  there  was  of  justice, 
art,  literature,  and  good  manners  —  it  is  clear  I  say,  that,  under  the 
Democratic  Institutes  of  the  United  States,,  now  and  henceforth,  there 
are  no  equally  genuine  fountains  of  fervid  beliefs,  adapted  to  produce 
similar  moral  and  religious  results,  according  to  our  circumstances.  I 
consider  that  the  churches,  sects,  pulpits,  of  the  present  day,  in  the 
United  States,  exist  not  by  any  solid  convictions,  but  by  a  sort  of 
tacit,  supercilious,  scornful  suffrance.  Few  speak  openly  —  none 
officially  —  against  them.  But  the  ostent  continuously  imposing,  who 
is  not  aware  that  any  such  living  fountains  of  belief  in  them  are  now 
utterly  ceas'd  and  departed  from  the  minds  of  men  ? 

A  Lingering  Note. —  In  the  making  of  a  full  man,  all  the  other 
consciences,  (the  emotional,  courageous,  intellectual,  esthetic,  &c.,) 
are  to  be  crown' d  and  effused  by  the  religious  conscience.  In  the 
higher  structure  of  a  human  self,  or  of  community,  the  Moral,  the 
Religious,  the  Spiritual,  is  strictly  analogous  to  the  subtle  vitalization 
and  antiseptic  play  call'd  Health  in  the  physiologic  structure.  To 
person  or  State,  the  main  verteber  (or  rather  the  verteber)  is  Morality. 
That  is  indeed  the  only  real  vitalization  of  character,  and  of  all  the 
supersensual,  even  heroic  and  artistic  portions  of  man  or  nationality. 
It  is  to  run  through  and  knit  the  superior  parts,  and  keep  man  or  State 
vital  and  upright,  as  health  keeps  the  body  straight  and  blooming. 
Of  course  a  really  grand  and  strong  and  beautiful  character  is  probably 
to  be  slowly  grown,  and  adjusted  strictly  with  reference  to  itself,  its 
own  personal  and  social  sphere  —  with  (paradox  though  it  may  be) 
the  clear  understanding  that  the  conventional  theories  of  life,  worldly 
ambition,  wealth,  office,  fame,  &c.,  are  essentially  but  glittering 
mayas,  delusions. 

Doubtless  the  greatest  scientists  and  theologians  will  sometimes  find 
themselves  saying,  It  isn't  only  those  who  know  most,  who  contribute 
most  to  God's  glory.  Doubtless  these  very  scientists  at  times  stand 


474  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

with  bared  heads  before  the  humblest  lives  and  personalities.  For 
there  is  something  greater  (is  there  not  ?)  than  all  the  science  and 
poems  of  the  world  —  above  all  else,  like  the  stars  shining  eternal  — 
above  Shakspere's  plays,  or  Concord  philosophy,  or  art  of  Angelo  or 
Raphael  —  something  that  shines  elusive,  like  beams  of  Hesperus  at 
evening  —  high  above  all  the  vaunted  wealth  and  pride  —  prov'd  by 
its  practical  outcropping  in  life,  each  case  after  its  own  concomitants 
—  the  intuitive  blending  of  divine  love  and  faith  in  a  human  emotional 
character  —  blending  for  all,  for  the  unlearn*  d,  the  common,  and  the 
poor. 

I  don't  know  in  what  book  I  once  read,  (possibly  the  remark  has 
been  made  in  books,  all  ages,)  that  no  life  ever  lived,  even  the  most 
uneventful,  but,  probed  to  its  centre,  would  be  found  in  itself  as  subtle 
a  drama  as  any  that  poets  have  ever  sung,  or  playwrights  fabled. 
Often,  too,  in  size  and  weight,  that  life  suppos'd  obscure.  For  it 
isn't  only  the  palpable  stars  ;  astronomers  say  there  are  dark,  or 
almost  dark,  unnotic'd  orbs  and  suns,  (like  the  dusky  companions  of 
Sirius,  seven  times  as  large  as  our  own  sun,)  rolling  through  space, 
real  and  potent  as  any  —  perhaps  the  most  real  and  potent.  Yet 
none  recks  of  them.  In  the  bright  lexicon  we  give  the  spreading 
heavens,  they  have  not  even  names.  Amid  ceaseless  sophistications 
all  times,  the  soul  would  seem  to  glance  yearningly  around  for  such 
contrasts  —  such  cool,  still  offsets. 

GEORGE    FOX  While  we  are  about  it,  we   must  almost 

(AND  SHAKSPERE)       inevitably  go  back  to    the  origin    of  the 

Society   of  which  Elias  Hicks  has  so  far 

prov'd  to  be  the  most  mark'd  individual  result.  We  must  revert  to 
the  latter  part  of  the  i6th,  and  all,  or  nearly  all  of  that  iyth  century, 
crowded  with  so  many  important  historical  events,  changes,  and  per 
sonages.  Throughout  Europe,  and  especially  in  what  we  call  our 
Mother  Country,  men  were  unusually  arous'd —  (some  would  say 
demented.)  It  was  a  special  age  of  the  insanity  of  witch-trials  and 
witch-hangings.  In  one  year  60  were  hung  for  witchcraft  in  one 
English  county  alone.  It  was  peculiarly  an  age  of  military-religious 
conflict.  Protestantism  and  Catholicism  were  wrestling  like  giants  for 
the  mastery,  straining  every  nerve.  Only  to  think  of  it  —  that  age  ! 
its  events,  persons  —  Shakspere  just  dead,  (his  folios  publish' d,  com 
plete) —  Charles  1st,  the  shadowy  spirit  and  the  solid  block!  To 
sum  up  all,  it  was  the  age  of  Cromwell! 

As  indispensable  foreground,  indeed,  for  Elias  Hicks,  and  perhaps 
sine  qua  non  to  an  estimate  of  the  kind  of  man,  we  must  briefly  trans 
port  ourselves  back  to  the  England  of  that  period.  As  I  say,  it  is  the 
time  of  tremendous  moral  and  political  agitation  ;  ideas  of  conflicting 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  475 

forms,  governments,  theologies,  seethe  and  dash  like  ocean  storms,  and 
ebb  and  flow  like  mighty  tides.  It  was,  or  had  been,  the  time  of  the 
long  feud  between  the  Parliament  and  the  Crown.  In  the  midst  of 
the  sprouts,  began  George  Fox  —  born  eight  years  after  the  death  of 
Shakspere.  He  was  the  son  of  a  weaver,  himself  a  shoemaker,  and 
was  "converted"  before  the  age  of  20.  But  O  the  sufferings,  men 
tal  and  physical,  through  which  those  years  of  the  strange  youth 
pass'd  !  He  claim' d  to  be  sent  by  God  to  fulfill  a  mission.  st  I 
come,"  he  said,  "to  direct  people  to  the  spirit  that  gave  forth  the 
Scriptures."  The  range  of  his  thought,  even  then,  cover' d  almost 
every  important  subject  of  after  times,  anti-slavery,  women's  rights, 
&c.  Though  in  a  low  sphere,  and  among  the  masses,  he  forms  a 
mark'd  feature  in  the  age. 

And  how,  indeed,  beyond  all  any,  that  stormy  and  perturb* d  age  ! 
The  foundations  of  the  old,  the  superstitious,  the  conventionally 
poetic,  the  credulous,  all  breaking  —  the  light  of  the  new,  and  of  sci 
ence  and  democracy,  definitely  beginning  —  a  mad,  fierce,  almost 
crazy  age  !  The  political  struggles  of  the  reigns  of  the  Charleses,  and 
of  the  Protectorate  of  Cromwell,  heated  to  frenzy  by  theological 
struggles.  Those  were  the  years  following  the  advent  and  practical 
working  of  the  Reformation  —  but  Catholicism  is  yet  strong,  and  yet 
seeks  supremacy.  We  think  our  age  full  of  the  flush  of  men  and 
doings,  and  culminations  of  war  and  peace  ;  and  so  it  is.  But  there 
could  hardly  be  a  grander  and  more  picturesque  and  varied  age  than 
that. 

Born  out  of  and  in  this  age,  when  Milton,  Bunyan,  Dryden  and 
John  Locke  were  still  living  —  amid  the  memories  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  James  First,  and  the  events  of  their  reigns  —  when  the  radiance  of 
that  galaxy  of  poets,  warriors,  statesmen,  captains,  lords,  explorers, 
wits  and  gentlemen,  that  crowded  the  courts  and  times  of  those  sover 
eigns  still  filPd  the  atmosphere  —  when  America  commencing  to  be 
explor'd  and  settled  commenc'd  also  to  be  suspected  as  destin'd  to 
overthrow  the  old  standards  and  calculations  —  when  Feudalism,  like 
a  sunset,  seem'd  to  gather  all  its  glories,  reminiscences,  personalisms, 
in  one  last  gorgeous  effort,  before  the  advance  of  a  new  day,  a  new 
incipient  genius  —  amid  the  social  and  domestic  circles  of  that  period  — 
indifferent  to  reverberations  that  seem'd  enough  to  wake  the  dead,  and 
in  a  sphere  far  from  the  pageants  of  the  court,  the  awe  of  any  personal 
rank  or  charm  of  intellect,  or  literature,  or  the  varying  excitement  of 
Parliamentarian  or  Royalist  fortunes  —  this  curious  young  rustic  goes 
wandering  up  and  down  England. 

George  Fox,  born  1624,  was  of  decent  stock,  in  ordinary  lower 
life  —  as  he  grew  along  toward  manhood,  work'd  at  shoemaking,  also 
at  farm  labors  —  loved  to  be  much  by  himself,  half-hidden  in  the 


476  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

woods,  reading  the  Bible  —  went  about  from  town  to  town,  dress*  d  in 
leather  clothes  —  walk'd  much  at  night,  solitary,  deeply  troubled 
("the  inward  divine  teaching  of  the  Lord")  —  sometimes  goes  among 
the  ecclesiastical  gatherings  of  the  great  professors,  and  though  a  mere 
youth  bears  bold  testimony  —  goes  to  and  fro  disputing  —  (must  have 
had  great  personality)  —  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord  speaking  articu 
lately  to  him,  as  he  walk'd  in  the  fields  —  feels  resistless  commands 
not  to  be  explain' d,  but  follow' d,  to  abstain  from  taking  off  his  hat,  to 
say  Thee  and  Thou,  and  not  bid  others  Good  morning  or  Good  even 
ing — was  illiterate,  could  just  read  and  write — testifies  against  shows, 
games,  and  frivolous  pleasures — enters  the  courts  and  warns  the  judges 
that  they  see  to  doing  justice  —  goes  into  public  houses  and  market 
places,  with  denunciations  of  drunkenness  and  money-making  —  rises 
in  the  midst  of  the  church-services,  and  gives  his  own  explanations  of 
the  ministers'  explanations,  and  of  Bible  passages  and  texts  —  some 
times  for  such  things  put  in  prison,  sometimes  struck  fiercely  on  the 
mouth  on  the  spot,  or  knock' d  down,  and  lying  there  beaten  and 
bloody  —  was  of  keen  wit,  ready  to  any  question  with  the  most  apropos 
of  answers  —  was  sometimes  press' d  for  a  soldier,  (him  for  a  soldier  !) 
—  was  indeed  terribly  buffeted  ;  but  goes,  goes,  goes  —  often  sleep 
ing  out-doors,  under  hedges,  or  hay  stacks  —  forever  taken  before 
justices  —  improving  such,  and  all  occasions,  to  bear  testimony,  and 
give  good  advice  —  still  enters  the  "steeple-houses,"  (as  he  calls 
churches,^)  and  though  often  dragg'd  out  and  whipt  till  he  faints  away, 
and  lies  like  one  dead,  when  he  comes-to — stands  up  again,  and  offer 
ing  himself  all  bruis'd  and  bloody,  cries  out  to  his  tormenters, 
"Strike  —  strike  again,  here  where  you  have  not  yet  touch' d  !  my 
arms,  my  head,  my  cheeks,"  — Is  at  length  arrested  and  sent  up  to 
London,  confers  with  the  Protector,  Cromwell,  —  is  set  at  liberty, 
and  holds  great  meetings  in  London. 

Thus  going  on,  there  is  something  in  him  that  fascinates  one  or 
two  here,  and  three  or  four  there,  until  gradually  there  were  others 
who  went  about  in  the  same  spirit,  and  by  degrees  the  Society  of 
Friends  took  shape,  and  stood  among  the  thousand  religious  sects  of  the 
world.  Women  also  catch  the  contagion,  and  go  round,  often  shame 
fully  misused.  By  such  contagion  these  ministerings,  by  scores, 
almost  hundreds  of  poor  travelling  men  and  women,  keep  on  year  after 
year,  through  ridicule,  whipping,  imprisonment,  &c.  — some  of  the 
Friend-ministers  emigrate  to  New  England  —  where  their  treatment 
makes  the  blackest  part  of  the  early  annals  of  the  New  World.  Some 
were  executed,  others  maim'd,  par-burnt,  and  scourg'd  —  two  hundred 
die  in  prison  —  some  on  the  gallows,  or  at  the  stake. 

George  Fox  himself  visited  America,  and  found  a  refuge  and  hearers, 
and  preach' d  many  times  on  Long  Island,  New  York  State.      In  the 


NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  477 

village  of  Oysterbay  they  will  show  you  the  rock  on  which  he  stood, 
(1672,)  addressing  the  multitude,  in  the  open  air  —  thus  rigidly  fol 
lowing  the  fashion  of  apostolic  times.  —  (I  have  heard  myself  many 
reminiscences  of  him.)  Flushing  also  contains  (or  contain' d  —  I  have 
seen  them)  memorials  of  Fox,  and  his  son,  in  two  aged  white-oak 
trees,  that  shaded  him  while  he  bore  his  testimony  to  people  gather' d 
in  the  highway.  — Yes,  the  American  Quakers  were  much  persecuted 

almost  as  much,  by  a  sort  of  consent  of  all  the  other  sects,  as  the 

Jews  were  in  Europe  in  the  middle  ages.  In  New  England,  the 
crudest  laws  were  pass'd,  and  put  in  execution  against  them.  As 
said,  some  were  whipt  —  women  the  same  as  men.  Some  had  their 
ears  cut  off  —  others  their  tongues  pierc'd  with  hot  irons — others 
their  faces  branded.  Worse  still,  a  woman  and  three  men  had  been 
hang'd,  (1660.) — Public  opinion,  and  the  statutes,  join' d  together, 
in  an  odious  union,  Quakers,  Baptists,  Roman  Catholics  and  Witches. 
—  Such  a  fragmentary  sketch  of  George  Fox  and  his  time  —  and  the 
advent  of  "  the  Society  of  Friends"  in  America. 

Strange  as  it  may  sound,  Shakspere  and  George  Fox,  (think  of 
them!  compare  them!)  were  born  and  bred  of  similar  stock,  in  much 
the  same  surroundings  and  station  in  life  —  from  the  same  England  — 
and  at  a  similar  period.  One  to  radiate  all  of  art's,  all  literature's 
splendor  —  a  splendor  so  dazzling  that  he  himself  is  almost  lost  in  it, 
and  his  contemporaries  the  same  —  his  fictitious  Othello,  Romeo, 
Hamlet,  Lear,  as  real  as  any  lords  of  England  or  Europe  then  and 
there  —  more  real  to  us,  the  mind  sometimes  thinks,  than  the  man 
Shakspere  himself.  Then  the  other  —  may  we  indeed  name  him  the 
same  day?  What  is  poor  plain  George  Fox  compared  to  William 
Shakspere  —  to  fancy's  lord,  imagination's  heir?  Yet  George  Fox 
stands  for  something  too — a  thought — the  thought  that  wakes  in 
silent  hours — perhaps  the  deepest,  most  eternal  thought  latent  in  the 
human  soul.  This  is  the  thought  of  God,  merged  in  the  thoughts  of 
moral  right  and  the  immortality  of  identity.  Great,  great  is  this 
thought  —  aye,  greater  than  all  else.  When  the  gorgeous  pageant  of 
Art,  refulgent  in  the  sunshine,  color'd  with  roses  and  gold — with  all 
the  richest  mere  poetry,  old  or  new,  (even  Shakespere's)  with  all  that 
statue,  play,  painting,  music,  architecture,  oratory,  can  effect,  ceases 
to  satisfy  and  please  —  When  the  eager  chase  after  wealth  flags,  and 
beauty  itself  becomes  a  loathing  —  and  when  all  worldly  or  carnal  or 
esthetic,  or  even  scientific  values,  having  done  their  office  to  the  human 
character,  and  minister' d  their  part  to  its  development  —  then,  if  not 
before,  comes  forward  this  over-arching  thought,  and  brings  its 
eligibilities,  germinations.  Most  neglected  in  life  of  all  humanity's 
attributes,  easily  cover' d  with  crust,  deluded  and  abused,  rejected,  yet 
the  only  certain  source  of  what  all  are  seeking,  but  few  or  none  find  — 


478  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

in  it  I  for  myself  clearly  see  the  first,  the  last,  the  deepest  depths  and 
highest  heights  of  art,  of  literature,  and  of  the  purposes  of  life.  I  say 
whoever  labors  here,  makes  contributions  here,  or  best  of  all  sets  an 
incarnated  example  here,  of  life  or  death,  is  dearest  to  humanity  — 
remains  after  the  rest  are  gone.  And  here,  for  these  purposes,  and  up 
to  the  light  that  was  in  him,  the  man  Elias  Hicks  —  as  the  man  George 
Fox  had  done  years  before  him  —  lived  long,  and  died,  faithful  in  life, 
and  faithful  in  death. 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY 


32 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    RE 
JOINDER 


IN  the  domain  of  Literature  loftily  considered  (an  accomplished  and 
veteran  critic  in  his  just  out  work*  now  says,)  'the  kingdom  of  the 
Father  has  pass'd;  the  kingdom  of  the  Son  is  passing;  the  kingdom  of 
the  Spirit  begins.'  Leaving  the  reader  to  chew  on  and  extract  the 
juice  and  meaning  of  this,  I  will  proceed  to  say  in  melanged  form 
what  I  have  had  brought  out  by  the  English  author's  essay  (he  dis 
cusses  the  poetic  art  mostly)  on  my  own,  real,  or  by  him  supposed, 
news  and  purports.  If  I  give  any  answers  to  him,  or  explanations  of 
what  my  books  intend,  they  will  be  not  direct  but  indirect  and  deriva 
tive.  Of  course  this  brief  jotting  is  personal.  Something  very  like 
nierulous  egotism  and  growling  may  break  through  the  narrative  (for  I 
lave  been  and  am  rejected  by  all  the  great  magazines,  carry  now  my 
d  annual  burden,  and  have  been  a  paralytic  for  18  years.) 
No  great  poem  or  other  literary  or  artistic  work  of  any  scope,  old 
>r  new,  can  be  essentially  consider' d  without  weighing  first  the  age, 
jolitics  (or  want  of  politics)  and  aim,  visible  forms,  unseen  soul,  and 
current  times,  out  of  the  midst  of  which  it  rises  and  is  formulated  :  as 
he  Biblic  canticles  and  their  days  and  spirit  —  as  the  Homeric,  or 
Dante's  utterance,  or  Shakspere's,  or  the  old  Scotch  or  Irish  ballads, 
>r  Ossian,  or  Omar  Khayyam.  So  I  have  conceiv'd  and  launch' d, 
ind  work'd  for  years  at,  my  «  Leaves  of  Grass  '  -  —  personal  emana- 
ions  only  at  best,  but  with  specialty  of  emergence  and  background  — 
he  ripening  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  thought  and  fact  and  radia- 
ion  of  individuality,  of  America,  the  secession  war,  and  showing  the 
lemocratic  conditions  supplanting  everything  that  insults  them  or  im- 

*Two  new  volumes,  "Essays  Speculative  and  Suggestive,"  by  John 
A.ddington  Symonds.  One  of  the  Essays  is  on  "  Democratic  Art,"  in 
nrhich  I  and  my  books  are  largely  alluded  to  and  cited  and  dissected.  It 
s  this  part  of  the  vols.  that  has  caused  the  off-hand  lines  above  —  (first 
hanking  Mr.  S.  for  his  invariable  courtesy  of  personal  treatment). 


482  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

pedes  their  aggregate  way.  Doubtless  my  poems  illustrate  (one  of 
novel  thousands  to  come  for  a  long  period)  those  conditions  ;  but 
"  democratic  art "  will  have  to  wait  long  before  it  is  satisfactorily  formu 
lated  and  defined  —  if  it  ever  is. 

I  will  now  for  one  indicative  moment  lock  horns  with  what  many 
think  the  greatest  thing,  the  question  of  art,  so-call'd.  I  have  not 
seen  without  learning  something  therefrom,  how,  with  hardly  an  ex 
ception,  the  poets  of  this  age  devote  themselves,  always  mainly,  some 
times  altogether,  to  fine  rhyme,  spicy  verbalism,  the  fabric  and  cut  of 
the  garment,  jewelry,  concetti,  style,  art.  To-day  these  adjuncts  are 
certainly  the  effort,  beyond  all  else.  Yet  the  lesson  of  Nature  un 
doubtedly  is,  to  proceed  with  single  purpose  toward  the  result  neces 
sitated,  and  for  which  the  time  has  arrived,  utterly  regardless  of  the 
outputs  of  shape,  appearance  or  criticism,  which  are  always  left  to 
settle  themselves.  I  have  not  only  not  bother' d  much  about  style, 
form,  art,  etc.,  but  confess  to  more  or  less  apathy  (I  believe  I  have 
sometimes  caught  myself  in  decided  aversion)  toward  them  throughout, 
asking  nothing  of  them  but  negative  advantages  —  that  they  should 
never  impede  me,  and  never  under  any  circumstances,  or  for  their  own 
purposes  only,  assume  any  mastery  over  me. 

From  the  beginning  I  have  watch' d  the  sharp  and  sometimes  heavy 
and  deep-penetrating  objections  and  reviews  against  my  work,  and  I 
hope  entertain'd  and  audited  them;  (for  I  have  probably  had  an 
advantage  in  constructing  from  a  central  and  unitary  principle  since 
the  first,  but  at  long  intervals  and  stages  —  sometimes  lapses  of  five  or 
six  years,  or  peace  or  war.)  Ruskin,  the  Englishman,  charges  as  a 
fearful  and  serious  lack  that  my  poems  have  no  humor.  A  profound 
German  critic  complains  that,  compared  with  the  luxuriant  and  well- 
accepted  songs  of  the  world,  there  is  about  my  verse  a  certain  coldness, 
severity,  absence  of  spice,  polish,  or  of  consecutive  meaning  and  plot. 
(The  book  is  autobiographic  at  bottom,  and  may-be  I  do  not  exhibit 
and  make  ado  about  the  stock  passions :  I  am  partly  of  Quaker  stock. ) 
Then  E.  C.  Stedman  finds  (or  found)  mark'd  fault  with  me  because 
while  celebrating  the  common  people  en  masse,  I  do  not  allow  enough 
heroism  and  moral  merit  and  good  intentions  to  the  choicer  classes,  the 
college-bred,  the  etat-major.  It  is  quite  probable  that  S.  is  right  in  the 
matter.  In  the  main  I  myself  look,  and  have  from  the  first  look'd,  to 
the  bulky  democratic  torso  of  the  United  States  even  for  esthetic  and 
moral  attributes  of  serious  account — and  refused  to  aim  at  or  accept 
anything  less.  If  America  is  only  for  the  rule  and  fashion  and  small 
typicality  of  other  lands  (the  rule  of  the  etat-major}  it  is  not  the  land 
I  take  it  for,  and  should  to-day  feel  that  my  literary  aim  and  theory 
had  been  blanks  and  misdirections.  Strictly  judged,  most  modern 
poems  are  but  larger  or  smaller  lumps  of  sugar,  or  slices  of  tooth' 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  483 

some  sweet  cake  —  even  the  banqueters  dwelling  on  those  glucose 
flavors  as  a  main  part  of  the  dish.  Which  perhaps  leads  to  something : 
to  have  great  heroic  poetry  we  need  great  readers  —  a  heroic  appetite 
and  audience.  Have  we  at  present  any  such  ? 

Then  the  thought  at  the  centre,  never  too  often  repeated.  Bound 
less  material  wealth,  free  political  organization,  immense  geographic 
area,  and  unprecedented  "business"  and  products — even  the  most 
active  intellect  and  "  culture  " —  will  not  place  this  Commonwealth  of 
ours  on  the  topmost  range  of  history  and  humanity  —  or  any  eminence 
of  "democratic  art  "  —  to  say  nothing  of  its  pinnacle.  Only  the  pro 
duction  (and  on  the  most  copious  scale)  of  loftiest  moral,  spiritual  and 
heroic  personal  illustrations  —  a  great  native  Literature  headed  with  a 
Poetry  stronger  and  sweeter  than  any  yet.  If  there  can  be  any  such 
thing  as  a  kosmic  modern  and  original  song,  America  needs  it,  and  is 
worthy  of  it. 

In  my  opinion  to-day  (bitter  as  it  is  to  say  so)  the  outputs  through 
civilized  nations  everywhere  from  the  great  words  Literature,  Art, 
Religion,  &c.,  with  their  conventional  administerers,  stand  squarely  in 
the  way  of  what  the  vitalities  of  those  great  words  signify,  more  than 
they  really  prepare  the  soil  for  them  —  or  plant  the  seeds,  or  cultivate 
or  garner  the  crop.  My  own  opinion  has  long  been,  that  for  New 
World  service  our  ideas  of  beauty  (inherited  from  the  Greeks,  and  so 
on  to  Shakspere  —  query — perverted  from  them?)  need  to  be  radically 
changed,  and  made  anew  for  to-day's  purposes  and  finer  standards. 
But  if  so,  it  will  all  come  in  due  time  —  the  real  change  will  be  an 
autochthonic,  interior,  constitutional,  even  local  one,  from  which  our 
notions  of  beauty  (lines  and  colors  are  wondrous  lovely,  but  character 
is  lovelier)  will  branch  or  offshoot. 

So  much  have  I  now  rattled  off  (old  age's  garrulity,)  that  there  is 
not  space  for  explaining  the  most  important  and  pregnant  principle  of 
all,  viz.,  that  Art  is  one,  is  not  partial,  but  includes  all  times  and 
forms  and  sorts  —  is  not  exclusively  aristocratic  or  democratic,  or 
oriental  or  occidental.  My  favorite  symbol  would  be  a  good  font  of 
type,  where  the  impeccable  long-primer  rejects  nothing.  Or  the  old 
Dutch  flour-miller  who  said,  "I  never  bother  myself  what  road  the 
folks  come  —  I  only  want  good  wheat  and  rye." 

The  font  is  about  the  same  forever.  Democratic  art  results  of 
democratic  development,  from  tinge,  true  nationality,  belief,  in  the 
one  setting  up  from  it. 


OLD  POETS 


POETRY  (I  am  clear)  is  eligible  of  something  far  more  ripen' d  and 
ample,  our  lands  and  pending  days,  than  it  has  yet  produced  from  any 
utterance  old  or  new.  Modern  or  new  poetry,  too,  (viewing  or 
challenging  it  with  severe  criticism,)  is  largely  a-void  —  while  the 
very  cognizance,  or  even  suspicion  of  that  void,  and  the  need  of  filling 
it,  proves  a  certainty  of  the  hidden  and  waiting  supply.  Leaving 
other  lands  and  languages  to  speak  for  themselves,  we  can  abruptly  but 
deeply  suggest  it  best  from  our  own  —  going  first  to  oversea  illustra 
tions,  and  standing  on  them.  Think  of  Byron,  Burns,  Shelley,  Keats, 
(even  first-raters,  "the  brothers  of  the  radiant  summit,"  as  William 
O'Connor  calls  them,)  as  having  done  only  their  precursory  and 
'prentice  work,  and  all  their  best  and  real  poems  being  left  yet 
un wrought,  untouch'd.  Is  it  difficult  to  imagine  ahead  of  us  and 
them,  evolv'd  from  them,  poesy  completer  far  than  any  they  them 
selves  fulfill' d  ?  One  has  in  his  eye  and  mind  some  very  large,  very 
old,  entirely  sound  and  vital  tree  or  vine,  like  certain  hardy,  ever- 
fruitful  specimens  in  California  and  Canada,  or  down  in  Mexico, 
(and  indeed  in  all  lands)  beyond  the  chronological  records  —  illus 
trations  of  growth,  continuity,  power,  amplitude  and  exploitation, 
almost  beyond  statement,  but  proving  fact  and  possibility,  outside  of 
argument. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  the  rarest  and  most  blessed  quality  of  transcendent 
noble  poetry  —  as  of  law,  and  of  the  profoundest  wisdom  and  estheti- 
cism — is,  (I  would  suggest,)  from  sane,  completed,  vital,  capable 
old  age. 

The  final  proof  of  song  or  personality  is  a  sort  of  matured,  ac 
creted,  superb,  evoluted,  almost  divine,  impalpable  diffuseness  and 
atmosphere  or  invisible  magnetism,  dissolving  and  embracing  all  —  and 
not  any  special  achievement  of  passion,  pride,  metrical  form,  epigram, 
plot,  thought,  or  what  is  call'd  beauty.  The  bud  of  the  rose  or  the 
half-blown  flower  is  beautiful,  of  course,  but  only  the  perfected  bloom 
or  apple  or  finish' d  wheat-head  is  beyond  the  rest.  Completed  fruit 
age  like  this  comes  (in  my  opinion)  to  a  grand  age,  in  man  or  woman, 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  485 

through  an  essentially  sound  continuated  physiology  and  psychology 
(both  important)  and  is  the  culminating  glorious  aureole  of  all  and 
several  preceding.  Like  the  tree  or  vine  just  mention' d,  it  stands 
at  last  in  a  beauty,  power  and  productiveness  of  its  own,  above  all 
others,  and  of  a  sort  and  style  uniting  all  criticisms,  proofs  and  ad- 
herences. 

Let  us  diversify  the  matter  a  little  by  portraying  some  of  the  Ameri 
can  poets  from  our  own  point  of  view. 

•  Longfellow,  reminiscent,  polish' d,  elegant,  with  the  air  of  finest 
conventional  library,  picture-gallery  or  parlor,  with  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  in  them,  and  plush  and  rosewood,  and  ground-glass  lamps, 
and  mahogany  and  ebony  furniture,  and  a  silver  inkstand  and  scented 
satin  paper  to  write  on. 

Whittier  stands  for  morality  (not  in  any  all-accepting  philosophic 
or  Hegelian  sense,  but)  filter' d  through  a  Puritanical  or  Quaker 
filter  —  is  incalculably  valuable  as  a  genuine  utterance,  (and  the 
finest,) — with  many  local  and  Yankee  and  genre  bits  —  all  hued 
with  anti-slavery  coloring —  (the  genre  and  anti-slavery  contributions 
all  precious  —  all  help.)  Whittier' s  is  rather  a  grand  figure,  but 
pretty  lean  and  ascetic — no  Greek — not  universal  and  composite 
enough  (don't  try — don't  wish  to  be)  for  ideal  Americanism.  Ideal 
Americanism  would  take  the  Greek  spirit  and  law,  and  democratize 
and  scientize  and  (thence)  truly  Christianize  them  for  the  whole, 
the  globe,  all  history,  all  ranks  and  lands,  all  facts,  all  good  and  bad. 
(Ah  this  bad — this  nineteen-twentieths  of  us  all  !  What  a  stumbling- 
block  it  remains  for  poets  and  metaphysicians — what  a  chance  (the 
strange,  clear-as-ever  inscription  on  the  old  dug-up  tablet)  it  offers 
yet  for  being  translated — what  can  be  its  purpose  in  the  God- 
scheme  of  this  universe,  and  all?) 

Then  William  Cullen  Bryant — meditative,  serious,  from  first  to 
last  tending  to  threnodies — his  genius  mainly  lyrical — when  reading 
his  pieces  who  could  expect  or  ask  for  more  magnificent  ones  than 
such  as  "The  Battle-Field,"  and  "A  Forest  Hymn"?  Bryant, 
unrolling,  prairie-like,  notwithstanding  his  mountains  and  lakes — 
moral  enough  (yet  worldly  and  conventional) — a  naturalist,  pedes 
trian,  gardener  and  fruiter — well  aware  of  books,  but  mixing  to  the 
last  in  cities  and  society.  I  am  not  sure  but  his  name  ought  to 
lead  the  list  of  American  bards.  Years  ago  I  thought  Emer 
son  pre  eminent  (and  as  to  the  last  polish  and  intellectual  cute- 
ness  may-be  I  think  so  still)  — but,  for  reasons,  I  have  been  gradu 
ally  tending  to  give  the  file-leading  place  for  American  native  poesy  to 
W.  C.  B. 

Of  Emerson  I  have  to  confirm  my  already  avow'd  opinion  regard 
ing  his  highest  bardic  and  personal  attitude.  Of  the  galaxy  of  the 


OLD  POETS 


POETRY  (I  am  clear)  is  eligible  of  something  far  more  ripen* d  and 
ample,  our  lands  and  pending  days,  than  it  has  yet  produced  from  any 
utterance  old  or  new.  Modern  or  new  poetry,  too,  (viewing  or 
challenging  it  with  severe  criticism,)  is  largely  a-void  —  while  the 
very  cognizance,  or  even  suspicion  of  that  void,  and  the  need  of  filling 
it,  proves  a  certainty  of  the  hidden  and  waiting  supply.  Leaving 
other  lands  and  languages  to  speak  for  themselves,  we  can  abruptly  but 
deeply  suggest  it  best  from  our  own  —  going  first  to  oversea  illustra 
tions,  and  standing  on  them.  Think  of  Byron,  Burns,  Shelley,  Keats, 
(even  first-raters,  "the  brothers  of  the  radiant  summit,"  as  William 
O'Connor  calls  them,)  as  having  done  only  their  precursory  and 
'prentice  work,  and  all  their  best  and  real  poems  being  left  yet 
unwrought,  untouch'd.  Is  it  difficult  to  imagine  ahead  of  us  and 
them,  evolv'd  from  them,  poesy  completer  far  than  any  they  them 
selves  fulfill' d  ?  One  has  in  his  eye  and  mind  some  very  large,  very 
old,  entirely  sound  and  vital  tree  or  vine,  like  certain  hardy,  ever- 
fruitful  specimens  in  California  and  Canada,  or  down  in  Mexico, 
(and  indeed  in  all  lands)  beyond  the  chronological  records  —  illus 
trations  of  growth,  continuity,  power,  amplitude  and  exploitation, 
almost  beyond  statement,  but  proving  fact  and  possibility,  outside  of 
argument. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  the  rarest  and  most  blessed  quality  of  transcendent 
noble  poetry  —  as  of  law,  and  of  the  profoundest  wisdom  and  estheti- 
cism — is,  (I  would  suggest,)  from  sane,  completed,  vital,  capable 
old  age. 

The  final  proof  of  song  or  personality  is  a  sort  of  matured,  ac 
creted,  superb,  evoluted,  almost  divine,  impalpable  diffuseness  and 
atmosphere  or  invisible  magnetism,  dissolving  and  embracing  all  —  and 
not  any  special  achievement  of  passion,  pride,  metrical  form,  epigram, 
plot,  thought,  or  what  is  calPd  beauty.  The  bud  of  the  rose  or  the 
half-blown  flower  is  beautiful,  of  course,  but  only  the  perfected  bloom 
or  apple  or  finish' d  wheat-head  is  beyond  the  rest.  Completed  fruit 
age  like  this  comes  (in  my  opinion)  to  a  grand  age,  in  man  or  woman, 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  485 

through  an  essentially  sound  continuated  physiology  and  psychology 
(both  important)  and  is  the  culminating  glorious  aureole  of  all  and 
several  preceding.  Like  the  tree  or  vine  just  mention' d,  it  stands 
at  last  in  a  beauty,  power  and  productiveness  of  its  own,  above  all 
others,  and  of  a  sort  and  style  uniting  all  criticisms,  proofs  and  ad- 
herences. 

Let  us  diversify  the  matter  a  little  by  portraying  some  of  the  Ameri 
can  poets  from  our  own  point  of  view. 

•  Longfellow,  reminiscent,  polish* d,  elegant,  with  the  air  of  finest 
conventional  library,  picture-gallery  or  parlor,  with  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  in  them,  and  plush  and  rosewood,  and  ground-glass  lamps, 
and  mahogany  and  ebony  furniture,  and  a  silver  inkstand  and  scented 
satin  paper  to  write  on. 

Whittier  stands  for  morality  (not  in  any  all-accepting  philosophic 
or  Hegelian  sense,  but)  filter' d  through  a  Puritanical  or  Quaker 
filter  —  is  incalculably  valuable  as  a  genuine  utterance,  (and  the 
finest,) — with  many  local  and  Yankee  and  genre  bits  —  all  hued 
with  anti-slavery  coloring — (the  genre  and  anti-slavery  contributions 
all  precious — all  help.)  Whittier Js  is  rather  a  grand  figure,  but 
pretty  lean  and  ascetic — no  Greek  —  not  universal  and  composite 
enough  (don't  try — don't  wish  to  be)  for  ideal  Americanism.  Ideal 
Americanism  would  take  the  Greek  spirit  and  law,  and  democratize 
and  scientize  and  (thence)  truly  Christianize  them  for  the  whole, 
the  globe,  all  history,  all  ranks  and  lands,  all  facts,  all  good  and  bad. 
(Ah  this  bad — this  nineteen-twentieths  of  us  all  !  What  a  stumbling- 
block  it  remains  for  poets  and  metaphysicians — what  a  chance  (the 
strange,  clear-as-ever  inscription  on  the  old  dug-up  tablet)  it  offers 
yet  for  being  translated — what  can  be  its  purpose  in  the  God- 
scheme  of  this  universe,  and  all?) 

Then  William  Cullen  Bryant — meditative,  serious,  from  first  to 
last  tending  to  threnodies — his  genius  mainly  lyrical — when  reading 
his  pieces  who  could  expect  or  ask  for  more  magnificent  ones  than 
such  as  "The  Battle-Field,"  and  "A  Forest  Hymn"?  Bryant, 
unrolling,  prairie-like,  notwithstanding  his  mountains  and  lakes  — 
moral  enough  (yet  worldly  and  conventional) — a  naturalist,  pedes 
trian,  gardener  and  fruiter — well  aware  of  books,  but  mixing  to  the 
last  in  cities  and  society.  I  am  not  sure  but  his  name  ought  to 
lead  the  list  of  American  bards.  Years  ago  I  thought  Emer 
son  pre  eminent  (and  as  to  the  last  polish  and  intellectual  cute- 
ness  may-be  I  think  so  still) — but,  for  reasons,  I  have  been  gradu 
ally  tending  to  give  the  file-leading  place  for  American  native  poesy  to 
W.  C.  B. 

Of  Emerson  I  have  to  confirm  my  already  avow'd  opinion  regard 
ing  his  highest  bardic  and  personal  attitude.  Of  the  galaxy  of  the 


486  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

past — of  Poe,  Halleck,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Allston,  Willis,  Dana, 
John  Pierpont,  W.  G.  Simms,  Robert  Sands,  Drake,  Hillhouse, 
Theodore  Fay,  Margaret  Fuller,  Epes  Sargent,  Boker,  Paul  Hayne, 
Lanier,  and  others,  I  fitly  in  essaying  such  a  theme  as  this,  and 
reverence  for  their  memories,  may  at  least  give  a  heart-benison  on 
the  list  of  their  names. 

Time  and  New  World  humanity  having  the  venerable  resem 
blances  more  than  anything  else,  and  being  "the  same  subject  con 
tinued,"  just  here  in  1890,  one  gets  a  curious  nourishment  and  lift 
(I  do)  from  all  those  grand  old  veterans,  Bancroft,  Kossuth,  von 
Moltke — and  such  typical  specimen-reminiscences  as  Sophocles  and 
Goethe,  genius,  health,  beauty  of  person,  riches,  rank,  renown  and 
length  of  days,  all  combining  and  centering  in  one  case. 

Above  everything,  what  could  humanity  and  literature  do  without 
the  mellow,  last-justifying,  averaging,  bringing-up  of  many,  many 
years — a  great  old  age  amplified?  Every  really  first-class  production 
has  likely  to  pass  through  the  crucial  tests  of  a  generation,  perhaps 
several  generations.  Lord  Bacon  says  the  first  sight  of  any  work 
really  new  and  first-rate  in  beauty  and  originality  always  arouses 
something  disagreeable  and  repulsive.  Voltaire  term'd  the  Shak- 
sperean  works  "a  huge  dunghill";  Hamlet  he  described  (to  the 
Academy,  whose  members  listened  with  approbation)  as  "the  dream 
of  a  drunken  savage,  with  a  few  flashes  of  beautiful  thoughts."  And 
not  the  Ferney  sage  alone;  the  orthodox  judges  and  law-givers  of 
France,  such  as  La  Harpe,  J.  L.  Geoffroy,  and  Chateaubriand, 
either  join'd  in  Voltaire's  verdict,  or  went  further.  Indeed  the 
classicists  and  regulars  there  still  hold  to  it.  The  lesson  is  very 
significant  in  all  departments.  People  resent  anything  new  as  a 
personal  insult.  When  umbrellas  were  first  used  in  England,  those 
who  carried  them  were  hooted  and  pelted  so  furiously  that  their 
lives  were  endanger* d.  The  same  rage  encounter* d  the  attempt  in 
theatricals  to  perform  women's  parts  by  real  women,  which  was 
publicly  considered  disgusting  and  outrageous.  Byron  thought  Pope's 
verse  incomparably  ahead  of  Homer  and  Shakspere.  One  of  the 
prevalent  objections,  in  the  days  of  Columbus  was,  the  learn' d  men 
boldly  asserted  that  if  a  ship  should  reach  India  she  would  never  get 
back  again,  because  the  rotundity  of  the  globe  would  present  a  kind 
of  mountain,  up  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  sail  even  with  the 
most  favorable  wind. 

"  Modern  poets,"  says  a  leading  Boston  journal,  "  enjoy  lon 
gevity.  Browning  lived  to  be  seventy-seven.  Wordsworth,  Bryant, 
Emerson,  and  Longfellow  were  old  men.  Whittier,  Tennyson,  and 
Walt  Whitman  still  live." 

Started  out   by  that   item  on    Old    Poets   and    Poetry  for   chyle 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  487 

to  inner  American  sustenance — I  have  thus  gossipp'd  about  it  all, 
and  treated  it  from  my  own  point  of  view,  taking  the  privi 
lege  of  rambling  wherever  the  talk  carried  me.  Browning  is 
lately  dead;  Bryant,  Emerson  and  Longfellow  have  not  long 
pass'd  away;  and  yes,  Whittier  and  Tennyson  remain,  over 
eighty  years  old — the  latter  having  sent  out  not  long  since  a  fresh 
volume,  which  the  English-speaking  Old  and  New  Worlds  are  yet 
reading.  I  have  already  put  on  record  my  notions  of  T.  and  his 
effusions :  they  are  very  attractive  and  flowery  to  me — but  flowers, 
too,  are  at  least  as  profound  as  anything;  and  by  common  consent 
T.  is  settled  as  the  poetic  cream-skimmer  of  our  age's  melody,  ennui 
and  polish  —  a  verdict  in  which  I  agree,  and  should  say  that  nobody 
(not  even  Shakspere)  goes  deeper  in  those  exquisitely  touch' d  and 
half-hidden  hints  and  indirections  left  like  faint  perfumes  in  the 
crevices  of  his  lines.  Of  Browning  I  don't  know  enough  to  say 
much ;  he  must  be  studied  deeply  out,  too,  and  quite  certainly  repays 
the  trouble  —  but  I  am  old  and  indolent,  and  cannot  study  (and 
never  did.) 

Grand  as  to-day's  accumulative  fund  of  poetry  is,  there  is  certainly 
something  unborn,  not  yet  come  forth,  different  from  anything  now 
formulated  in  any  verse,  or  contributed  by  the  past  in  any  land  — 
something  waited  for,  craved,  hitherto  non-express' d.  What  it  will 
be,  and  how,  no  one  knows.  It  will  probably  have  to  prove  itself  by 
itself  and  its  readers.  One  thing,  it  must  run  through  entire  humanity 
(this  new  word  and  meaning  Solidarity  has  arisen  to  us  moderns) 
twining  all  lands  like  a  divine  thread,  stringing  all  beads,  pebbles  or 
gold,  from  God  and  the  soul,  and  like  God's  dynamics  and  sunshine 
illustrating  all  and  having  reference  to  all.  From  anything  like  a  cos- 
mical  point  of  view,  the  entirety  of  imaginative  literature's  themes  and 
results  as  we  get  them  to-day  seems  painfully  narrow.  All  that  has 
been  put  in  statement,  tremendous  as  it  is,  what  is  it  compared  with 
the  vast  fields  and  values  and  varieties  left  unreap'd  ?  Of  our  own 
country,  the  splendid  races  North  or  South,  and  especially  of  the 
Western  and  Pacific  regions,  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  their  myriad 
noblest  Homeric  and  Biblic  elements  are  all  untouch'd,  left  as  if 
ashamed  of,  and  only  certain  very  minor  occasional  delirium  tremens 
glints  studiously  sought  and  put  in  print,  in  short  tales,  "poetry  "  or 
books. 

I  give  these  speculations,  or  notions,  in  all  their  audacity,  for  the 
comfort  of  thousands  —  perhaps  a  majority  of  ardent  minds,  women's 
and  young  men's — who  stand  in  awe  and  despair  before  the  immensity 
of  suns  and  stars  already  in  the  firmament.  Even  in  the  Iliad  and  Shak 
spere  there  is  (is  there  not  ?)  a  certain  humiliation  produced  to  us  by  the 
absorption  of  them,  unless  we  sound  in  equality,  or  above  them,  the 


488  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

songs  due  our  own  democratic  era  and  surroundings,  and  the  full 
assertion  of  ourselves.  And  in  vain  (such  is  my  opinion)  will  America 
seek  successfully  to  tune  any  superb  national  song  unless  the  heart 
strings  of  the  people  start  it  from  their  own  breasts  —  to  be  returned 
and  echoed  there  again. 

SHIP   AHOY 

IN  dreams  I  was  a  ship,  and  sail'd  the  boundless  seas, 

Sailing  and  ever  sailing  —  all  seas  and  into  every  port,  or  out  upon  the 

offing, 

Saluting,  cheerily  hailing  each  mate,  met  or  pass'd,  little  or  big, 
"  Ship  ahoy  !  "  thro'   trumpet  or  by  voice  — if  nothing  more,  some 

friendly  merry  word  at  least, 
For  companionship  and  good  will  for  ever  to  all  and  each. 

FOR   QUEEN   VICTORIA'S   BIRTHDAY 

An  American  arbutus  bunch  to  be  put  in  a  little  vase  on  the  royal  breakfast  table  May 

Z^th,  1890. 

LADY,  accept  a  birth-day  thought  —  haply  an  idle  gift  and  token, 

Right  from  the  scented  soil's  May-utterance  here, 

(Smelling  of  countless  blessings,  prayers,  and  old-time  thanks,)* 

A  bunch  of  white  and  pink  arbutus,  silent,  spicy,  shy, 

From  Hudson's,  Delaware's,  or  Potomac's  woody  banks. 

*NoTE.  —  Very  little,  as  we  Americans  stand  this  day,  with  our  sixty- 
five  or  seventy  millions  of  population,  an  immense  surplus  in  the  treasury, 
and  all  that  actual  power  or  reserve  power  (land  and  sea)  so  dear  to 
nations  —  very  little  I  say  do  we  realize  that  curious  crawling  national 
shudder  when  the  " Trent  affair"  promis'd  to  bring  upon  us  a  war  with 
Great  Britain  —  followed  unquestionably,  as  that  war  would  have,  by 
recognition  of  the  Southern  Confederacy  from  all  the  leading  European 
nations.  It  is  now  certain  that  all  this  then  inevitable  train  of  calamity 
hung  on  arrogant  and  peremptory  phrases  in  the  prepared  and  written  mis 
sive  of  the  British  Minister,  to  America,  which  the  Queen  (and  Prince 
Albert  latent)  positively  and  promptly  cancelled  ;  and  which  her  firm  atti 
tude  did  alone  actually  erase  and  leave  out,  against  all  the  other  official 
prestige  and  Court  of  St.  James's.  On  such  minor  and  personal  incidents 
(so  to  call  them,)  often  depend  the  great  growths  and  turns  of  civilization. 
This  moment  of  a  woman  and  a  queen  surely  swung  the  grandest  oscillation 
of  modern  history's  pendulum.  Many  sayings  and  doings  of  that  period, 
from  foreign  potentates  and  powers,  might  well  be  dropt  in  oblivion  by 
America  —  but  never  this,  if  I  could  have  my  way.  W.  W. 


AMERICAN    NATIONAL 
LITERATURE 

Is  there  any  such  thing  —  or  can  there  ever  be  ? 


So  you  want  an  essay  about  American  National  Literature,  (tremen 
dous  and  fearful  subject!)  do  you?*  Well,  if  you  will  let  me  put 
down  some  melanged  cogitations  regarding  the  matter,  hap-hazard,  and 
from  my  own  points  of  view,  I  will  try.  Horace  Greeley  wrote  a 
book  named  "Hints  toward  Reforms,"  and  the  title-line  was  con 
sider*  d  the  best  part  of  all.  In  the  present  case  I  will  give  a  few 
thoughts  and  suggestions,  of  good  and  ambitious  intent  enough  anyhow 
—  first  reiterating  the  question  right  out  plainly:  American  National 
Literature  —  is  there  distinctively  any  such  thing,  or  can  there  ever  be  ? 
First  to  me  comes  an  almost  indescribably  august  form,  the  People, 
with  varied  typical  shapes  and  attitudes — then  the  divine  mirror, 
Literature. 

As  things  are,  probably  no  more  puzzling  question  ever  offer' d  itself 
than  (going  back  to  old  Nile  for  a  trope,)  What  bread-seeds  of  printed 
mentality  shall  we  cast  upon  America's  waters,  to  grow  and  return 
after  many  days  ?  Is  there  for  the  future  authorship  of  the  United 
States  any  better  way  than  submission  to  the  teeming  facts,  events, 
activities,  and  importations  already  vital  through  and  beneath  them  all  ? 
I  have  often  ponder' d  it,  and  felt  myself  disposed  to  let  it  go  at  that. 
Indeed,  are  not  those  facts  and  activities  and  importations  potent  and 
certain  to  fulfil  themselves  all  through  our  Commonwealth,  irrespective 
of  any  attempt  from  individual  guidance?  But  allowing  all,  and  even 
at  that,  a  good  part  of  the  matter  being  honest  discussion,  examination, 
and  earnest  personal  presentation,  we  may  even  for  sanitary  exercise 
and  contact  plunge  boldly  into  the  spread  of  the  many  waves  and 
cross-tides,  as  follows.  Or,  to  change  the  figure,  I  will  present  my 
varied  little  collation  (what  is  our  Country  itself  but  an  infinitely  vast 

*  The  essay  was  for  the  North  American  Review,  in  answer  to  the  formal 
request  of  the  editor.  It  appear' d  in  March,  1891. 


490  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  varied  collation  ?)  in  the  hope  that  the  show  itself  indicates  a  duty 
getting  more  and  more  incumbent  every  day. 

In  general,  civilization's  totality  or  real  representative  National 
Literature  formates  itself  (like  language,  or  "the  weather")  not  from 
two  or  three  influences,  however  important,  nor  from  any  learned 
syllabus,  or  criticism,  or  what  ought  to  be,  nor  from  any  minds  or 
advice  of  toploftical  quarters  —  and  indeed  not  at  all  from  the  influences 
and  ways  ostensibly  supposed  (though  they  too  are  adopted,  after  a 
sort)  —  but  slowly,  slowly,  curiously,  from  many  more  and  more, 
deeper  mixings  and  siftings  (especially  in  America)  and  generations 
and  years  and  races,  and  what  largely  appears  to  be  chance  —  but  is 
not  chance  at  all.  First  of  all,  for  future  National  Literature  in 
America,  New  England  (the  technically  moral  and  schoolmaster  region, 
as  a  cynical  fellow  I  know  calls  it)  and  the  three  or  four  great  Atlantic- 
coast  cities,  highly  as  they  to-day  suppose  they  dominate  the  whole, 
will  have  to  haul  in  their  horns.  Ensemble  is  the  tap-root  of  National 
Literature.  America  is  become  already  a  huge  world  of  peoples, 
rounded  and  orbic  climates,  idiocrasies,  and  geographies  —  forty-four 
Nations  curiously  and  irresistibly  blent  and  aggregated  in  ONE  NATION, 
with  one  imperial  language,  and  one  unitary  set  of  social  and  legal 
standards  over  all  —  and  (I  predict)  a  yet  to  be  National  Literature. 
(In  my  mind  this  last,  if  it  ever  comes,  is  to  prove  grander  and  more 
important  for  the  Commonwealth  than  its  politics  and  material  wealth 
and  trade,  vast  and  indispensable  as  those  are.) 

Think  a  moment  what  must,  beyond  peradventure,  be  the  real 
permanent  sub-bases,  or  lack  of  them.  Books  profoundly  considered 
show  a  great  nation  more  than  anything  else — more  than  laws  or 
manners.  (This  is,  of  course,  probably  the  deep-down  meaning  of 
that  well-buried  but  ever- vital  platitude,  Let  me  sing  the  people's  songs, 
and  I  don't  care  who  makes  their  laws.)  Books  too  reflect  humanity 
en  masse,  and  surely  show  them  splendidly,  or  the  reverse,  and  prove 
or  celebrate  their  prevalent  traits  (these  last  the  main  things. )  Homer 
grew  out  of  and  has  held  the  ages,  and  holds  to-day,  by  the  universal 
admiration  for  personal  prowess,  courage,  rankness,  amour  propre, 
leadership,  inherent  in  the  whole  human  race.  Shakspere  concentrates 
the  brilliancy  of  the  centuries  of  feudalism  on  the  proud  personalities 
they  produced,  and  paints  the  amorous  passion.  The  books  of  the 
Bible  stand  for  the  final  superiority  of  devout  emotions  over  the  rest, 
and  of  religious  adoration,  and  ultimate  absolute  justice,  more  powerful 
than  haughtiest  kings  or  millionaires  or  majorities. 

What  the  United  States  are  working  out  and  establishing  needs 
imperatively  the  connivance  of  something  subtler  than  ballots  and  legis 
lators.  The  Goethean  theory  and  lesson  (if  I  may  briefly  state  it  so) 
of  the  exclusive  sufficiency  of  artistic,  scientific,  literary  equipment  to 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  491 

the  character,  irrespective  of  any  strong  claims  of  the  political  ties  of 
nation,  state,  or  city,  could  have  answer' d  under  the  conventionality 
and  pettiness  of  Weimar,  or  the  Germany,  or  even  Europe,  of  those 
times;  but  it  will  not  do  for  America  to-day  at  all.  We  have  not  only 
to  exploit  our  own  theory  above  any  that  has  preceded  us,  but  we  have 
entirely  different,  and  deeper-rooted,  and  infinitely  broader  themes. 

When  I  have  had  a  chance  to  see  and  observe  a  sufficient  crowd  of 
American  boys  or  maturer  youths  or  well-grown  men,  all  the  States, 
as  in  my  experiences  in  the  secession  war  among  the  soldiers,  or  west, 
east,  north,  or  south,  or  my  wanderings  and  loiterings  through  cities 
(especially  New  York  and  in  Washington,)  I  have  invariably  found 
coming  to  the  front  three  prevailing  personal  traits,  to  be  named  here 
for  brevity's  sake  under  the  heads  Good-Nature,  Decorum,  and  Intel 
ligence.  (I  make  Good-Nature  first,  as  it  deserves  to  be  —  it  is  a 
splendid  resultant  of  all  the  rest,  like  health  or  fine  weather.)  Essen 
tially  these  lead  the  inherent  list  of  the  high  average  personal  born  and 
bred  qualities  of  the  young  fellows  everywhere  through  the  United 
States,  as  any  sharp  observer  can  find  out  for  himself.  Surely  these 
make  the  vertebral  stock  of  superbest  and  noblest  nations!  May  the 
destinies  show  it  so  forthcoming.  I  mainly  confide  the  whole  future 
of  our  Commonwealth  to  the  fact  of  these  three  bases.  Need  I  say  I 
demand  the  same  in  the  elements  and  spirit  and  fruitage  of  National 
Literature  ? 

Another,  perhaps  a  born  root  or  branch,  comes  under  the  words 
Noblesse  Oblige,  even  for  a  national  rule  or  motto.  My  opinion  is 
that  this  foregoing  phrase,  and  its  spirit,  should  influence  and  permeate 
official  America  and  its  representatives  in  Congress,  the  Executive 
Departments,  the  Presidency,  and  the  individual  States  —  should  be 
one  of  their  chiefest  mottoes,  and  be  carried  out  practically.  (I  got 
the  idea  from  my  dear  friend  the  democratic  Englishwoman,  Mrs. 
Anne  Gilchrist,  now  dead.  "The  beautiful  words  Noblesse  Oblige" 
said  she  to  me  once,  "are  not  best  for  some  develop' d  gentleman  or 
lord,  but  some  rich  and  develop' d  nation  —  and  especially  for  your 
America.") 

Then  another  and  very  grave  point  (for  this  discussion  is  deep,  deep 
—  not  for  trifles,  or  pretty  seemings.)  I  am  not  sure  but  the  estab 
lish' d  and  old  (and  superb  and  profound,  and,  one  may  say,  needed 
as  old)  conception  of  Deity  as  mainly  of  moral  constituency  (good 
ness,  purity,  sinlessness,  &c.)  has  been  undermined  by  nineteenth- 
century  ideas  and  science.  What  does  this  immense  and  almost  ab 
normal  development  of  Philanthropy  mean  among  the  moderns  ?  One 
doubts  if  there  ever  will  come  a  day  when  the  moral  laws  and  moral 
standards  will  be  supplanted  as  over  all  :  while  time  proceeds  (I  find 
it  so  myself)  they  will  probably  be  intrench' d  deeper  and  expanded 


492  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

wider.  Then  the  expanded  scientific  and  democratic  and  truly  philo 
sophic  and  poetic  quality  of  modernism  demands  a  Deific  identity  and 
scope  superior  to  all  limitations,  and  essentially  including  just  as  well 
the  so-call'd  evil  and  crime  and  criminals  —  all  the  malformations,  the 
defective  and  abortions  of  the  universe. 

Sometimes  the  bulk  of  the  common  people  (who  are  far  more  'cute 
than  the  critics  suppose)  relish  a  well-hidden  allusion  or  hint  carelessly 
dropt,  faintly  indicated,  and  left  to  be  disinterr'd  or  not.  Some  of 
the  very  old  ballads  have  delicious  morsels  of  this  kind.  Greek 
Aristophanes  and  Pindar  abounded  in  them.  (I  sometimes  fancy  the 
old  Hellenic  audiences  must  have  been  as  generally  keen  and  knowing 
as  any  of  their  poets.)  Shakspere  is  full  of  them.  Tennyson  has 
them.  It  is  always  a  capital  compliment  from  author  to  reader,  and 
worthy  the  peering  brains  of  America.  The  mere  smartness  of  the 
common  folks,  however,  does  not  need  encouraging,  but  qualities  more 
solid  and  opportune. 

What  are  now  deepest  wanted  in  the  States  as  roots  for  their  litera 
ture  are  Patriotism,  Nationality,  Ensemble,  or  the  ideas  of  these,  and 
the  uncompromising  genesis  and  saturation  of  these.  Not  the  mere 
bawling  and  braggadocio  of  them,  but  the  radical  emotion-facts,  the 
fervor  and  perennial  fructifying  spirit  at  fountain-head.  And  at  the 
risk  of  being  misunderstood  I  should  dwell  on  and  repeat  that  a  great 
imaginative  literatus  for  America  can  never  be  merely  good  and  moral 
in  the  conventional  method.  Puritanism  and  what  radiates  from  it 
must  always  be  mention' d  by  me  with  respect ;  then  I  should  say,  for 
this  vast  and  varied  Commonwealth,  geographically  and  artistically, 
the  puritanical  standards  are  constipated,  narrow,  and  non-philosophic. 

In  the  main  I  adhere  to  my  positions  in  "Democratic  Vistas," 
and  especially  to  my  summing-up  of  American  literature  as  far  as  to 
day  is  concern' d.  In  Scientism,  the  Medical  Profession,  Practical 
Inventions,  and  Journalism,  the  United  States  have  press' d  forward  to 
the  glorious  front  rank  of  advanced  civilized  lands,  as  also  in  the  popu 
lar  dissemination  of  printed  matter  (of  a  superficial  nature  perhaps,  but 
that  is  an  indispensable  preparatory  stage,)  and  have  gone  in  common 
education,  so-call'd,  far  beyond  any  other  land  or  age.  Yet  the  high- 
pitch' d  taunt  of  Margaret  Fuller,  forty  years  ago,  still  sounds  in  the 
air:  "It  does  not  follow,  because  the  United  States  print  and  read 
more  books,  magazines,  and  newspapers  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world, 
that  they  really  have  therefore  a  literature."  For  perhaps  it  is  not 
alone  the  free  schools  and  newspapers,  nor  railroads  and  factories,  nor 
all  the  iron,  cotton,  wheat,  pork,  and  petroleum,  nor  the  gold  and 
silver,  nor  the  surplus  of  a  hundred  or  several  hundred  millions,  nor 
the  Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth  Amendments,  nor  the  last  national 
census,  that  can  put  this  Commonweal  high  or  highest  on  the  cosmical 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  493 

scale  of  history.      Something  else  is  indispensable.      All  that  record  is 
lofty,  but  there  is  a  loftier. 

The  great  current  points  are  perhaps  simple,  after  all  :  first,  that 
the  highest  developments  of  the  New  World  and  Democracy,  and 
probably  the  best  society  of  the  civilized  world  all  over,  are  to  be  only 
reach* d  and  spinally  nourish' d  (in  my  notion)  by  a  new  evolutionary 
sense  and  treatment ;  and,  secondly,  that  the  evolution-principle, 
which  is  the  greatest  law  through  nature,  and  of  course  in  these 
States,  has  now  reach' d  us  markedly  for  and  in  our  literature. 

In  other  writings  I  have  tried  to  show  how  vital  to  any  aspiring 
Nationality  must  ever  be  its  autochthonic  song,  and  how  for  a  really 
great  people  there  can  be  no  complete  and  glorious  Name,  short  of 
emerging  out  of  and  even  rais'd  on  such  born  poetic  expression,  com 
ing  from  its  own  soil  and  soul,  its  area,  spread,  idiosyncrasies,  and 
(like  showers  of  rain,  originally  rising  impalpably,  distill 'd  from  land 
and  sea,)  duly  returning  there  again.  Nor  do  I  forget  what  we  all 
owe  to  our  ancestry ;  though  perhaps  we  are  apt  to  forgive  and  bear 
too  much  for  that  alone. 

One  part  of  the  national  American  literatus's  task  is  (and  it  is  not 
an  easy  one)  to  treat  the  old  hereditaments,  legends,  poems,  theolo 
gies,  and  even  customs,  with  fitting  respect  and  toleration,  and  at  the 
same  time  clearly  understand  and  justify,  and  be  devoted  to  and  exploit 
our  own  day,  its  diffused  light,  freedom,  responsibilities,  with  all  it 
necessitates,  and  that  our  New-World  circumstances  and  stages  of 
development  demand  and  make  proper.  For  American  literature  we 
want  mighty  authors,  not  even  Carlyle-  and  Heine-like,  born  and 
brought  up  in  (and  more  or  less  essentially  partaking  and  giving  out) 
that  vast  abnormal  ward  or  hysterical  sick-chamber  which  in  many 
respects  Europe,  with  all  its  glories,  would  seem  to  be.  The  greatest 
feature  in  current  poetry  (perhaps  in  literature  anyhow)  is  the  almost 
total  lack  of  first-class  power,  and  simple,  natural  health,  flourishing 
and  produced  at  first  hand,  typifying  our  own  era.  Modern  verse 
generally  lacks  quite  altogether  the  modern,  and  is  oftener  possess' d  in 
spirit  with  the  past  and  feudal,  dressed  may-be  in  late  fashions.  For 
novels  and  plays  often  the  plots  and  surfaces  are  contemporary  —  but 
the  spirit,  even  the  fun,  is  morbid  and  effete. 

There  is  an  essential  difference  between  the  Old  and  New.  The 
poems  of  Asia  and  Europe  are  rooted  in  the  long  past.  They  celebrate 
man  and  his  intellections  and  relativenesses  as  they  have  been.  But 
America,  in  as  high  a  strain  as  ever,  is  to  sing  them  all  as  they  are  and 
are  to  be.  (I  know,  of  course,  that  the  past  is  probably  a  main  factor 
in  what  we  are  and  know  and  must  be.)  At  present  the  States  are 
absorb' d  in  business,  money-making,  politics,  agriculture,  the  devel 
opment  of  mines,  intercommunications,  and  other  material  attents  — 


494  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

which  all  shove  forward  and  appear  at  their  height  —  as,  consistently 
with  modern  civilization,  they  must  be  and  should  be.  Then  even 
these  are  but  the  inevitable  precedents  and  providers  for  home-born, 
transcendent,  democratic  literature  —  to  be  shown  in  superior,  more 
heroic,  more  spiritual,  more  emotional,  personalities  and  songs.  A 
national  literature  is,  of  course,  in  one  sense,  a  great  mirror  or  reflector. 
There  must  however  be  something  before  —  something  to  reflect.  I 
should  say  now,  since  the  secession  war,  there  has  been,  and  to-day 
unquestionably  exists,  that  something. 

Certainly,  anyhow,  the  United  States  do  not  so  far  utter  poetry, 
first-rate  literature,  or  any  of  the  so-calPd  arts,  to  any  lofty  admiration 
or  advantage  —  are  not  dominated  or  penetrated  from  actual  inherence 
or  plain  bent  to  the  said  poetry  and  arts.  Other  work,  other  needs, 
current  inventions,  productions,  have  occupied  and  to-day  mainly 
occupy  them.  They  are  very  'cute  and  imitative  and  proud  —  can't 
bear  being  left  too  glaringly  away  far  behind  the  other  high-class 
nations — and  so  we  set  up  some  home  "poets,"  "artists,"  painters, 
musicians,  literatiy  and  so  forth,  all  our  own  (thus  claim' d.)  The 
whole  matter  has  gone  on,  and  exists  to-day,  probably  as  it  should 
have  been,  and  should  be  ;  as,  for  the  present,  it  must  be.  To  all 
which  we  conclude,  and  repeat  the  terrible  query :  American  National 
Literature  —  is  there  distinctively  any  such  thing,  or  can  there  ever 
be? 


GATHERING    THE    CORN 


Last  of  October.  — Now  mellow,  crisp,  Autumn  days,  bright 
moonlight  nights,  and  gathering  the  corn  —  "cutting  up,"  as  the 
farmers  call  it.  Now,  or  of  late,  all  over  the  country,  a  certain 
green  and  brown-drab  eloquence  seeming  to  call  out,  "You  that 
pretend  to  give  the  news,  and  all  that's  going,  why  not  give  us  a 
notice?"  Truly,  O  fields,  as  for  the  notice, 

"Take,  we  give  it  willingly." 

Only  we  must  do  it  our  own  way.  Leaving  the  domestic,  dietary, 
and  commercial  parts  of  the  question  (which  are  enormous,  in  fact, 
hardly  second  to  those  of  any  other  of  our  great  soil-products),  we 
will  just  saunter  down  a  lane  we  know,  on  an  average  West  Jersey 
farm,  and  let  the  fancy  of  the  hour  itemize  America's  most  typical 
agricultural  show  and  specialty. 

Gathering  the  Corn  —  the  British  call  it  Maize,  the  old  Yankee 
farmer  Indian  Corn.  The  great  plumes,  the  ears  well-envelop' d 
in  their  husks,  the  long  and  pointed  leaves,  in  summer,  like  green 
or  purple  ribands,  with  a  yellow  stem  line  in  the  middle,  all  now 
turn'd  dingy;  the  sturdy  stalks,  and  the  rustling  in  the  breeze — the 
breeze  itself  well  tempering  the  sunny  noon  —  The  varied  reminis 
cences  recall' d — the  ploughing  and  planting  in  spring — (the  whole 
family  in  the  field,  even  the  little  girls  and  boys  dropping  seed  in  the 
hill)  —  the  gorgeous  sight  through  July  and  August  —  the  walk  and 
observation  early  in  the  day — the  cheery  call  of  the  robin,  and  the 
low  whirr  of  insects  in  the  grass  —  the  Western  husking  party,  when 
ripe  —  the  November  moonlight  gathering,  and  the  calls,  songs, 
laughter  of  the  young  fellows. 

Not  to  forget,  hereabouts,  in  the  Middle  States,  the  old  worm 
fences,  with  the  gray  rails  and  their  scabs  of  moss  and  lichen — those 
old  rails,  weather  beaten,  but  strong  yet.  Why  not  come  down 
from  literary  dignity,  and  confess  we  are  sitting  on  one  now,  under 
the  shade  of  a  great  walnut  tree  ?  Why  not  confide  that  these  lines 
are  pencill'd  on  the  edge  of  a  woody  bank,  with  a  glistening  pond 
33 


496  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

and  creek  seen  through  the  trees  south,  and  the  corn  we  are  writing 
about  close  at  hand  on  the  north?  Why  not  put  in  the  delicious 
scent  of  the  "life  everlasting"  that  yet  lingers  so  profusely  in  every 
direction — the  chromatic  song  of  the  one  persevering  locust  (the 
insect  is  scarcer  this  fall  and  the  past  summer  than  for  many  years) 
beginning  slowly,  rising  and  swelling  to  much  emphasis,  and  then 
abruptly  falling — so  appropriate  to  the  scene,  so  quaint,  so  racy  and 
suggestive  in  the  warm  sunbeams,  we  could  sit  here  and  look  and 
listen  for  an  hour?  Why  not  even  the  tiny,  turtle-shaped,  yellow 
back' d,  black-spotted  lady-bug  that  has  lit  on  the  shirt-sleeve  of  the 
arm  inditing  this?  Ending  our  list  with  the  fall-drying  grass,  the 
Autumn  days  themselves, 

Sweet  days ;  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

(yet  not  so  cool  either,  about  noon) — the  horse-mint,  the  wild 
carrot,  the  mullein,  and  the  bumble-bee. 

How  the  half-mad  vision  of  William  Blake — how  the  far  freer, 
far  firmer  fantasy  that  wrote  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  — 
would  have  revell'd  night  or  day,  and  beyond  stint,  in  one  of  our 
American  corn  fields !  Truly,  in  color,  outline,  material  and  spiritual 
suggestiveness,  where  any  more  inclosing  theme  for  idealist,  poet, 
literary  artist? 

What  we  have  written  has  been  at  noon  day — but  perhaps  better 
still  (for  this  collation,)  to  steal  off  by  yourself  these  fine  nights,  and 
go  slowly,  musingly  down  the  lane,  when  the  dry  and  green-gray 
frost-touch*  d  leaves  seem  whisper-gossipping  all  over  the  field  in  low 
tones,  as  if  every  hill  had  something  to  say — and  you  sit  or  lean 
recluse  near  by,  and  inhale  that  rare,  rich,  ripe  and  peculiar  odor  of 
the  gather* d  plant  which  comes  out  best  only  to  the  night  air.  The 
complex  impressions  of  the  far-spread  fields  and  woods  in  the  night, 
are  blended  mystically,  soothingly,  indefinitely,  and  yet  palpably  to 
you  (appealing  curiously,  perhaps  mostly,  to  the  sense  of  smell.) 
All  is  comparative  silence  and  clear-shadow  below,  and  the  stars  are 
up  there  with  Jupiter  lording  it  over  westward ;  sulky  Saturn  in  the 
east,  and  over  head  the  moon.  A  rare  well-shadow* d  hour!  By  no 
means  the  least  of  the  eligibilities  of  the  gather*  d  corn ! 


A  DEATH-BOUQUET 

Picked  Noontime,  early  January,  1890 


DEATH  —  too  great  a  subject  to  be  treated  so  — indeed  the  greatest 
subject  —  and  yet  I  am  giving  you  but  a  few  random  lines  about  it — 
as  one  writes  hurriedly  the  last  part  of  a  letter  to  catch  the  closing 
mail.  Only  I  trust  the  lines,  especially  the  poetic  bits  quoted,  may 
leave  a  lingering  odor  of  spiritual  heroism  afterward.  For  I  am 
probably  fond  of  viewing  all  really  great  themes  indirectly,  and  by 
side- ways  and  suggestions.  Certain  music  from  wondrous  voices  or 
skilful  players  —  then  poetic  glints  still  more  —  put  the  soul  in  rapport 
with  death,  or  toward  it.  Hear  a  strain  from  Tennyson's  late 
"Crossing  the  Bar": 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark  ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  floods  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

Am  I  starting  the  sail-craft  of  poets  in  line  ?  Here  then  a  quatrain 
of  Phrynichus  long  ago  to  one  of  old  Athens'  favorites: 

Thrice-happy  Sophocles  !  in  good  old  age, 
Bless' d  as  a  man,  and  as  a  craftsman  blessed, 
He  died  j  his  many  tragedies  were  fair, 
And  fair  his  end,  nor  knew  he  any  sorrow. 

Certain  music,  indeed,  especially  voluntaries  by  a  good  player,  at 
twilight  —  or  idle  rambles  alone  by  the  shore,  or  over  prairie  or  on 
mountain  road,  for  that  matter  —  favor  the  right  mood.  Words  are 
difficult — even  impossible.  No  doubt  any  one  will  recall  ballads  or 
songs  or  hymns  (may-be  instrumental  performances)  that  have  arous'd 
so  curiously,  yet  definitely,  the  thought  of  death,  the  mystic,  the  after- 
realm,  as  no  statement  or  sermon  could  —  and  brought  it  hovering  near. 

A  happy  (to  call  it  so)  and  easy  death  is  at  least  as  much  a  physio- 


498  COiMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

logical  result  as  a  pyschological  one.  The  foundation  of  it  really 
begins  before  birth,  and  is  thence  directly  or  indirectly  shaped  and 
affected,  even  constituted,  (the  base  stomachic)  by  every  thing  from 
that  minute  till  the  time  of  its  occurrence.  And  yet  here  is  something 
(Whittier's  "Burning  Driftwood")  of  an  opposite  coloring: 

I  know  the  solemn  monotone 

Of  waters  calling  unto  me ; 
I  know  from  whence  the  airs  have  blown, 

That  whisper  of  the  Eternal  Sea  ; 
As  low  my  fires  of  driftwood  burn, 

I  hear  that  sea's  deep  sounds  increase, 
And,  fair  in  sunset  light,  discern 

Its  mirage-lifted  Isles  of  Peace. 

Like  an  invisible  breeze  after  a  long  and  sultry  day,  death  sometimes 
sets  in  at  last,  soothingly  and  refreshingly,  almost  vitally.  In  not  a 
few  cases  the  termination  even  appears  to  be  a  sort  of  ecstasy.  Of 
course  there  are  painful  deaths,  but  I  do  not  believe  such  is  at  all  the 
general  rule.  Of  the  many  hundreds  I  myself  saw  die  in  the  fields 
and  hospitals  during  the  secession  war  the  cases  of  mark'd  suffering  or 
agony  in  extremis  were  very  rare.  (It  is  a  curious  suggestion  of 
immortality  that  the  mental  and  emotional  powers  remain  to  their 
clearest  through  all,  while  the  senses  of  pain  and  flesh  volition  are 
blunted  or  even  gone.) 

Then  to  give  the  following,  and  cease  before  the  thought  gets 
threadbare: 

Now,  land  and  life,  finale,  and  farewell  ! 

Now  Voyager  depart  !  (much,  much  for  thee  is  yet  in  store  j) 

Often  enough  hast  thou  adventur'd  o'er  the  seas, 

Cautiously  cruising,  studying  the  charts, 

Duly  again  to  port  and  hawser's  tie  returning. 

—  But  now  obey  thy  cherish' d,  secret  wish, 

Embrace  thy  friends  —  leave  all  in  order  ; 

To  port  and  hawser's  tie  no  more  returning, 

Depart  upon  thy  endless  cruise,  old  Sailor  ! 


SOME  LAGGARDS  YET 


THE  PERFECT  STATING  it  briefly  and  pointedly  I  should 

HUMAN  VOICE  suggest  that  the  human  voice  is  a  cultiva 

tion  or  form'd  growth  on  a  fair  native 

foundation.  This  foundation  probably  exists  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten. 
Sometimes  nature  affords  the  vocal  organ  in  perfection,  or  rather  I 
would  say  near  enough  to  whet  one's  appreciation  and  appetite  for  a 
voice  that  might  be  truly  call'd  perfection.  To  me  the  grand  voice  is 
mainly  physiological  —  (by  which  I  by  no  means  ignore  the  mental 
help,  but  wish  to  keep  the  emphasis  where  it  belongs.)  Emerson 
says  manners  form  the  representative  apex  and  final  charm  and  captiva- 
tion  of  humanity :  but  he  might  as  well  have  changed  the  typicality  to 
voice. 

Of  course  there  is  much  taught  and  written  about  elocution,  the 
best  reading,  speaking,  &c.,  but  it  finally  settles  down  to  best  human 
vocalization.  Beyond  all  other  power  and  beauty,  there  is  something 
in  the  quality  and  power  of  the  right  voice  (timbre  the  schools  call  it) 
that  touches  the  soul,  the  abysms.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  the 
Greeks  depended,  at  their  highest,  on  poetry's  and  wisdom's  vocal 
utterance  by  tete-a-tete  lectures —  (indeed  all  the  ancients  did.) 

Of  celebrated  people  possessing  this  wonderful  vocal  power,  patent 
to  me,  in  former  days,  I  should  specify  the  contralto  Alboni,  Elias 
Hicks,  Father  Taylor,  the  tenor  Bettini,  Fanny  Kemble,  and  the  old 
actor  Booth,  and  in  private  life  many  cases,  often  women.  I  some 
times  wonder  whether  the  best  philosophy  and  poetry,  or  something 
like  the  best,  after  all  these  centuries,  perhaps  waits  to  be  rous'd  out 
yet,  or  suggested,  by  the  perfect  physiological  human  voice. 

SHAKSPERE    FOR  Let  me  send  you  a   supplementary  word 

AMERICA  to   that    "view"  of  Shakspere  attributed 

to  me,   publish' d   in    your  July  number,* 

and  so  courteously  worded  by  the  reviewer  (thanks  !  dear  friend.) 
But  you  have  left  out  what,  perhaps,  is  the  main  point,  as  follows : 

*This  bit  was  in  "  Poet-lore"  monthly  for  September,  1890. 


500  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

"  Even  the  one  who  at  present  reigns  unquestioned  —  of  Shakspere 
—  for  all  he  stands  for  so  much  in  modern  literature,  he  stands 
entirely  for  the  mighty  esthetic  sceptres  of  the  past,  not  for  the  spirit 
ual  and  democratic,  the  sceptres  of  the  future."  (See  pp.  55-58  in 
"  November  Boughs,"  and  also  some  of  my  further  notions  on  Shak 
spere.) 

The  Old  World  (Europe  and  Asia)  is  the  region  of  the  poetry  of 
concrete  and  real  things,  —  the  past,  the  esthetic,  palaces,  etiquette, 
the  literature  of  war  and  love,  the  mythological  gods,  and  the  myths 
anyhow.  But  the  New  World  (America)  is  the  region  of  the  future, 
and  its  poetry  must  be  spiritual  and  democratic.  Evolution  is  not  the 
rule  in  Nature,  in  Politics,  and  Inventions  only,  but  in  Verse.  I  know 
our  age  is  greatly  materialistic,  but  it  is  greatly  spiritual,  too,  and  the 
future  will  be,  too.  Even  what  we  moderns  have  come  to  mean  by 
spirituality  (while  including  what  the  Hebraic  utterers,  and  mainly 
perhaps  all  the  Greek  and  other  old  typical  poets,  and  also  the  later 
ones,  meant)  has  so  expanded  and  color' d  and  vivified  the  compre 
hension  of  the  term,  that  it  is  quite  a  different  one  from  the  past. 
Then  science,  the  final  critic  of  all,  has  the  casting  vote  for  future 
poetry. 

"UNASSAIL'D  The  N.  Y.  Critic,  Nov.  24,  1889,  pro- 

RENOWN  "  pounded  a  circular  to  several  persons,  and 

giving  the  responses,  says,  "  Walt  Whit 
man's  views  [as  follow]  are,  naturally,  more  radical  than  those  of  any 
other  contributor  to  the  discussion"  : 

Briefly  to  answer  impromptu  your  request  of  Oct.  19  —  the 
question  whether  I  think  any  American  poet  not  now  living 
deserves  a  place  among  the  thirteen  "  English  inheritors  of  un- 
assail'd  renown"  (Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shakspere,  Milton,  Dryden, 
Pope,  Gray,  Burns,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Byron,  Shelley  and 
Keats,) — and  which  American  poets  would  be  truly  worthy,  &c. 
Though  to  me  the  deep  of  the  matter  goes  down,  down  beneath. 
I  remember  the  London  Times  at  the  time,  in  opportune,  pro 
found  and  friendly  articles  on  Bryant's  and  Longfellow's  deaths, 
spoke  of  the  embarrassment,  warping  effect,  and  confusion  on 
America  (her  poets  and  poetic  students)  "coming  in  possession 
of  a  great  estate  they  had  never  lifted  a  hand  to  form  or  earn"  ; 
and  the  further  contingency  of  "  the  English  language  ever  having 
annex' d  to  it  a  lot  of  first-class  Poetry  that  would  be  American, 
not  European" — proving  then  something  precious  over  all,  and 
beyond  valuation.  But  perhaps  that  is  venturing  outside  the  ques 
tion.  Of  the  thirteen  British  immortals  mention' d  —  after  placing 
Shakspere  on  a  sort  of  pre-eminence  of  fame  not  to  be  invaded 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  501 

yet  —  the  names  of  Bryant,  Emerson,  Whittier  and  Longfellow 
(with  even  added  names,  sometimes  Southerners,  sometimes  West 
ern  or  other  writers  of  only  one  or  two  pieces,)  deserve  in  my 
opinion  an  equally  high  niche  of  renown  as  belongs  to  any  on  the 
dozen  of  that  glorious  list. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  As  America's  mental  courage  (the  thought 
A  LITTLE  BOOK  comes  to  me  to-day  (is  so  indebted,  above 

ON    GIORDANO  all  current  lands  and  peoples,  to  the  noble 

BRUNO  army  of  Old- World  martyrs  past,  how  in 

cumbent  on  us  that  we  clear  those  martyrs' 

lives  and  names,  and  hold  them  up  for  reverent  admiration,  as  well  as 
beacons.  And  typical  of  this,  and  standing  for  it  and  all  perhaps, 
Giordano  Bruno  may  well  be  put,  to-day  and  to  come,  in  our  New 
World's  thankfulest  heart  and  memory.  W.  W. 

CAMDEN,  NEW  JERSEY,  February  24tby  1890. 

SPLINTERS  While  I  stand  in  reverence  before  the  fact 

of  Humanity,  the  People,   I  will  confess, 

in  writing  my  L.  of  G.,  the  least  consideration  out  of  all  that  has  had 
to  do  wifh  it  has  been  the  consideration  of  "the  public"  —at  any 
rate  as  it  now  exists.  Strange  as  it  may  sound  for  a  democrat  to  say 
so,  I  am  clear  that  no  free  and  original  and  lofty-soaring  poem,  or  one 
ambitious  of  those  achievements,  can  possibly  be  fulfill' d  by  any  writer 
who  has  largely  in  his  thought  the  public  —  or  the  question,  What 
will  establish' d  literature — What  will  the  current  authorities  say 
about  it  ? 

As  far  as  I  have  sought  any,  not  the  best  laid  out  garden  or  parterre 

has  been  my  model  —  but  Nature  has  been.      I  know  that  in  a  sense 

the  garden  is  nature  too,  but  I  had  to  choose  —  I  could  not  give  both. 

'  Besides  the  gardens  are  well  represented  in  poetry  ;  while  Nature  (in 

letter  and  in  spirit,  in  the  divine  essence,)  little  if  at  all. 

Certainly,  (while  I  have  not  hit  it  by  a  long  shot,)  I  have 
aim'd  at  the  most  ambitious,  the  best  —  and  sometimes  feel  to 
advance  that  aim  (even  with  all  its  arrogance)  as  the  most  redeem 
ing  part  of  my  books.  I  have  never  so  much  cared  to  feed  the 
esthetic  or  intellectual  palates  —  but  if  I  could  arouse  from  its 
slumbers  that  eligibility  in  every  soul  for  its  own  true  exercise  !  if 
I  could  only  wield  that  lever ! 

Out  from  the  well-tended  concrete  and  the  physical  —  and  in  them 
and  from  them  only  —  radiate  the  spiritual  and  heroic. 

Undoubtedly  many  points  belonging  to  this  essay  —  perhaps  of  the 
greatest  necessity,  fitness  and  importance  to  it  —  have  been  left  out  or 
forgotten.  But  the  amount  of  the  whole  matter  —  poems,  preface  and 


502  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

everything  —  is  merely  to  make  one  of  those  little  punctures  or  eye 
lets  the  actors  possess  in  the  theatre-curtains  to  look  out  upon  "the 
house"  — one  brief,  honest,  living  glance. 

HEALTH,    (OLD  In  that  condition  the  whole  body  is  ele- 

STYLE)  vated    to    a  state  by  others   unknown  — 

inwardly  and  outwardly  illuminated,  puri 
fied,  made  solid,  strong,  yet  buoyant.  A  singular  charm,  more  than 
beauty,  flickers  out  of,  and  over,  the  face  —  a  curious  transparency 
beams  in  the  eyes,  both  in  the  iris  and  the  white  —  the  temper  par 
takes  also.  Nothing  that  happens  —  no  event,  rencontre,  weather, 
&c  —  but  it  is  confronted  —  nothing  but  is  subdued  into  sustenance 
—  such  is  the  marvellous  transformation  from  the  old  timorousness 
and  the  old  process  of  causes  and  effects.  Sorrows  and  disap 
pointments  cease  —  there  is  no  more  borrowing  trouble  in  advance. 
A  man  realizes  the  venerable  myth  —  he  is  a  god  walking  the  earth, 
he  sees  new  eligibilities,  powers  and  beauties  everywhere  ;  he  him 
self  has  a  new  eyesight  and  hearing.  The  play  of  the  body  in 
motion  takes  a  previously  unknown  grace.  Merely  to  move  is  then 
a  happiness,  a  pleasure —  to  breathe,  to  see,  is  also.  All  the  before 
hand  gratifications,  drink,  spirits,  coffee,  grease,  stimulants,  mixtures, 
late  hours,  luxuries,  deeds  of  the  night,  seem  as  vexatious  dreams, 
and  now  the  awakening  ;  —  many  fall  into  their  natural  places,  whole 
some,  conveying  diviner  joys. 

What  I  append  —  Health,  old  style  —  I  have  long  treasured  — 
found  originally  in  some  scrap-book  fifty  years  ago  —  a  favorite  of 
mine  (but  quite  a  glaring  contrast  to  my  present  bodily  state:) 

ON  a  high  rock  above  the  vast  abyss, 

Whose  solid  base  tumultuous  waters  lave  j 

Whose  airy  high-top  balmy  breezes  kiss, 

Fresh  from  the  white  foam  of  the  circling  wav«  — 

There  ruddy  HEALTH,  in  rude  majestic  state, 
His  clust'  ring  forelock  combatting  the  winds  — 

Bares  to  each  season' s  change  his  breast  elate, 
And  still  fresh  vigor  from  th'  encounter  finds  : 

With  mighty  mind  to  every  fortune  braced, 

To  every  climate  each  corporeal  power, 
And  high-proof  heart,  impenetrably  cased, 

He  mocks  the  quick  transitions  of  the  hour. 

Now  could  he  hug  bleak  Zembla's  bolted  snow, 

Now  to  Arabia's  heated  deserts  turn, 
Yet  bids  the  biting  blast  more  fiercely  blow, 

The  scorching  sun  without  abatement  burn. 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  503 

There  this  bold  Outlaw,  rising  with  the  morn, 

His  sinewy  functions  fitted  for  the  toil, 
Pursues,  with  tireless  steps,  the  rapturous  horn, 

And  bears  in  triumph  back  the  shaggy  spoil. 

Or,  on  his  rugged  range  of  towering  hills, 
Turns  the  stiff  glebe  behind  his  hardy  team  ; 

His  wide-spread  heaths  to  blithest  measures  tills, 
And  boasts  the  joys  of  life  are  not  a  dream  ! 

Then  to  his  airy  hut,  at  eve,  retires, 

Clasps  to  his  open  breast  his  buxom  spouse, 

Basks  in  his  faggot's  blaze,  his  passions  fires, 
And  strait  supine  to  rest  unbroken  bows. 

On  his  smooth  forehead,  Time's  old  annual  score, 

Tho'  left  to  furrow,  yet  disdains  to  lie  $ 
He  bids  weak  sorrow  tantalize  no  more, 

And  puts  the  cup  of  care  contemptuous  by. 

If,  from  some  inland  height,  that,  skirting,  bears 

Its  rude  encroachments  far  into  the  vale, 
He  views  where  poor  dishonored  nature  wears 

On  her  soft  cheek  alone  the  lily  pale  j 

How  will  he  scorn  alliance  with  the  race, 
Those  aspen  shoots  that  shiver  at  a  breath  ; 

Children  of  sloth,  that  danger  dare  not  face, 
And  find  in  life  but  an  extended  death  : 

Then  from  the  silken  reptiles  will  he  fly, 

To  the  bold  cliff  in  bounding  transports  run, 

And  stretch' d  o'er  many  a  wave  his  ardent  eye, 
Embrace  the  enduring  Sea-Boy  as  his  son  ! 

Yes  !  thine  alone  —  from  pain,  from  sorrow  free, 
The  lengthen' d  life  with  peerless  joys  replete  ; 

Then  let  me,  Lord  of  Mountains,  share  with  thee 
The  hard,  the  early  toil  —  the  relaxation  sweet. 

GAY-HEARTEDNESS     Walking  on  the  old  Navy  Yard  bridge, 

Washington,  D.  C.,  once  with  a  com 
panion,  Mr.  Marshall,  from  England,  a  great  traveler  and  observer,  as 
a  squad  of  laughing  young  black  girls  pass'd  us  —  then  two  copper- 
color*  d  boys,  one  good-looking  lad  15  or  16,  barefoot,  running  after 
— "What  gay  creatures  they  all  appear  to  be,"  said  Mr.  M.  Then 
we  fell  to  talking  about  the  general  lack  of  buoyant  animal  spirits.  "I 


504  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

think,"  said  Mr.  M.,  «•  that  in  all  my  travels,  and  all  my  intercourse 
with  people  of  every  and  any  class,  especially  the  cultivated  ones, 
(the  literary  and  fashionable  folks,)  I  have  never  yet  come  across  what 
I  should  call  a  really  GAY-HEARTED  MAN." 

It  was  a   terrible  criticism  —  cut  into  me  like  a  surgeon's  lance. 
Made  me  silent  the  whole  walk  home. 

AS   IN   A   SWOON. 

As  in  a  swoon,  one  instant, 

Another  sun,  ineffable,  full-dazzles  me, 

And  all  the  orbs  I  knew  —  and  brighter,  unknown  orbs ; 

One  instant  of  the  future  land,  Heaven's  land. 

L.    OF   G. 

THOUGHTS,  suggestions,  aspirations,  pictures, 

Cities  and  farms  —  by  day  and  night  —  book  of  peace  and  war, 

Of  platitudes  and  of  the  commonplace. 

For  out-door  health,  the  land  and  sea  —  for  good  will, 

For  America  —  for  all  the  earth,  all  nations,  the  common  people, 

(Not  of  one  nation  only  — not  America  only.) 

In  it  each  claim,  ideal,  line,  by  all  lines,  claims,  ideals,  temper'd; 
Each  right  and  wish  by  other  wishes,  rights. 

AFTER    THE   ARGUMENT. 

A  GROUP  of  little  children  with  their  ways  and  chatter  flow  in, 
Like  welcome  rippling  water  o'er  my  heated  nerves  and  flesh. 

FOR   US    TWO,    READER   DEAR. 

SIMPLE,  spontaneous,  curious,  two  souls  interchanging, 
With  the  original  testimony  for  us  continued  to  the  last. 


MEMORANDA 


[Let  me  indeed  turn  upon  myself  a  little  of  the  light  I  have  been  so 
fond  of  casting  on  others. 

Of  course  these  few  exceptional  later  mems  are' far,  far  short  of  one's 
concluding  history  or  thoughts  or  life-giving  —  only  a  hap-hazard  pinch  of 
all.  But  the  old  Greek  proverb  put  it,  "Anybody  who  really  has  a  good 
quality"  (or  bad  one  either,  I  guess)  "has  all."  There's  something  in 
the  proverb  ;  but  you  mustn't  carry  it  too  far. 

I  will  not  reject  any  theme  or  subject  because  the  treatment  is  too  per 
sonal.  As  my  stuff  settles  into  shape,  I  am  told  (and  sometimes  myself 
discover,  uneasily,  but  feel  all  right  about  it  in  calmer  moments)  it  is 
mainly  autobiographic,  and  even  egotistic  after  all  —  which  I  finally  accept, 
and  am  contented  so. 

If  this  little  volume  betrays,  as  it  doubtless  does,  a  weakening  hand,  and 
decrepitude,  remember  it  is  knit  together  out  of  accumulated  sickness, 
inertia,  physical  disablement,  acute  pain,  and  listlessness.  My  fear  will  be 
that  at  last  my  pieces  show  indooredness,  and  being  chain' d  to  a  chair  — 
as  never  before.  Only  the  resolve  to  keep  up,  and  on,  and  to  add  a  rem 
nant,  and  even  perhaps  obstinately  see  what  failing  powers  and  decay  may 
contribute  too,  have  produced  it. 

And  now  as  from  some  fisherman's  net  hauling  all  sorts,  and  disbursing 
the  same.] 

A  WORLD'S  SHOW       New    York,    Great    Exposition    open' d  in 

1853. — I  went   a    long    time    (nearly   a 

year) — days  and  nights — especially  the  latter  —  as  it  was  finely 
lighted,  and  had  a  very  large  and  copious  exhibition  gallery  of 
paintings  (shown  at  best  at  night,  I  tho't) — hundreds  of  pictures 
from  Europe,  many  masterpieces  —  all  an  exhaustless  study  —  and, 
scatter' d  thro'  the  building,  sculptures,  single  figures  or  groups  — 
among  the  rest,  Thorwaldsen's  "  Apostles,"  colossal  in  size  —  and 
very  many  fine  bronzes,  pieces  of  plate  from  English  silversmiths, 
and  curios  from  everywhere  abroad  —  with  woods  from  all  lands  of 
the  earth  —  all  sorts  of  fabrics  and  products  and  handiwork  from  the 
workers  of  all  nations. 


506  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

NEW  YORK — THE        Commencement  of  a  gossipy  travelling  letter 

BAY — THE  OLD  in    a    New    York   city  paper,   May   io> 

NAME  I&79-  —  My  month's  visit  is  about  up; 

but  before  I  get  back  to  Camden  let  me 

print  some  jottings  of  the  last  four  weeks.  Have  you  not,  reader 
dear,  among  your  intimate  friends,  some  one,  temporarily  absent, 
whose  letters  to  you,  avoiding  all  the  big  topics  and  disquisitions, 
give  only  minor,  gossipy  sights  and  scenes — just  as  they  come  — 
subjects  disdain' d  by  solid  writers,  but  interesting  to  you  because 
they  were  such  as  happen  to  everybody,  and  were  the  moving 
entourage  to  your  friend — to  his  or  her  steps,  eyes,  mentality? 
Well,  with  an  idea  something  of  that  kind,  I  suppose,  I  set  out  on 
the  following  hurrygraphs  of  a  breezy  early-summer  visit  to  New 
York  city  and  up  the  North  river — especially  at  present  of  some 
hours  along  Broadway. 

What  I  came  to  New  York  for.  — To  try  the  experiment  of  a 
lecture — to  see  whether  I  could  stand  it,  and  whether  an  audience 
could — was  my  specific  object.  Some  friends  had  invited  me  — 
it  was  by  no  means  clear  how  it  would  end — I  stipulated  that  they 
should  get  only  a  third-rate  hall,  and  not  sound  the  advertising 
trumpets  a  bit — and  so  I  started.  I  much  wanted  something  to  do 
for  occupation,  consistent  with  my  limping  and  paralyzed  state. 
And  now,  since  it  came  off,  and  since  neither  my  hearers  nor  I 
myself  really  collaps'd  at  the  aforesaid  lecture,  I  intend  to  go  up 
and  down  the  land  (in  moderation,)  seeking  whom  I  may  devour, 
with  lectures,  and  reading  of  my  own  poems — short  pulls,  however 
— never  exceeding  an  hour. 

Crossing  from  Jersey  city,  5  to  6  P.  M.  — The  city  part  of  the 
North  river  with  its  life,  breadth,  peculiarities — the  amplitude  of 
sea  and  wharf,  cargo  and  commerce — one  don't  realize  them  till  one 
has  been  away  a  long  time  and,  as  now  returning,  (crossing  from 
Jersey  city  to  Desbrosses-st.,)  gazes  on  the  unrivall'd  panorama, 
and  far  down  the  thin- vapor' d  vistas  of  the  bay,  toward  the  Narrows 
—  or  northward  up  the  Hudson  —  or  on  the  ample  spread  and 
infinite  variety,  free  and  floating,  of  the  more  immediate  views — a 
countless  river  series — everything  moving,  yet  so  easy,  and  such 
plenty  of  room !  Little,  I  say,  do  folks  here  appreciate  the  most 
ample,  eligible,  picturesque  bay  and  estuary  surroundings  in  the 
world !  This  is  the  third  time  such  a  conviction  has  come  to  me 
after  absence,  returning  to  New  York,  dwelling  on  its  magnificent 
entrances — approaching  the  city  by  them  from  any  point. 

More  and  more,  too,  the  old  name  absorbs  into  me — MANNA- 
HATTA,  "the  place  encircled  by  many  swift  tides  and  sparkling 
waters."  How  fit  a  name  for  America's  great  democratic  island 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  507 

city !  The  word  itself,  how  beautiful !  how  aboriginal !  how  it 
seems  to  rise  with  tall  spires,  glistening  in  sunshine,  with  such  New 
World  atmosphere,  vista  and  action  ! 

A  SICK  SPELL  Christmas  Day,  2^tb  Dec.,  1888.— Am 

somewhat  easier  and  freer  to-day  and  the 

last  three  days  —  sit  up  most  of  the  time  —  read  and  write,  and 
receive  my  visitors.  Have  now  been  in-doors  sick  for  seven  months 

half  of  the  time  bad,  bad,  vertigo,  indigestion,   bladder,  gastric, 

head  trouble,  inertia— Dr.  Bucke,  Dr.  Osier,  Drs.  Wharton  and 
Walsh  —  now  Edward  Wilkins  my  help  and  nurse.  A  fine,  splen 
did,  sunny  day.  My  "November  Boughs"  is  printed  and  out; 
and  my  "Complete  Works,  Poems  and  Prose,"  a  big  volume,  900 
pages,  also.  It  is  ab't  noon,  and  I  sit  here  pretty  comfortable. 

TO  BE  PRESENT  At  the   Complimentary   Dinner,    Camden, 

ONLY  New    Jersey,     May  31,    1889.  —  Walt 

Whitman  said:  My  friends,  though  an 
nounced  to  give  an  address,  there  is  no  such  intention.  Following  the 
impulse  of  the  spirit,  (for  I  am  at  least  half  of  Quaker  stock)  I  have 
obey'd  the  command  to  come  and  look  at  you,  for  a  minute,  and  show 
myself,  face  to  face ;  which  is  probably  the  best  I  can  do.  But  I  have 
felt  no  command  to  make  a  speech;  and  shall  not  therefore  attempt 
any.  All  I  have  felt  the  imperative  conviction  to  say  I  have  already 
printed  in  my  books  of  poems  or  prose ;  to  which  I  refer  any  who  may 
be  curious.  And  so,  hail  and  farewell.  Deeply  acknowledging  this 
deep  compliment,  with  my  best  respects  and  love  to  you  personally  — 
to  Camden  —  to  New-Jersey,  and  to  all  represented  here  —  you  must 
excuse  me  from  any  word  further. 

"  INTESTINAL  AGI-  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys  has  just  received  an 
TATION"  interesting  letter  from  Walt  Whitman, 

From  Pall-Mall  Gazette,  Lon-  dated  "Camden,  January  22,  1890." 
Jon,  England,  Feb.  8,  i8qo  The  following  is  an  extract  from  it : 

I  am  still  here  —  no   very  mark'd  or 

significant  change  or  happening  —  fairly  buoyant  spirits,  &c.  - 
but  surely,  slowly  ebbing.  At  this  moment  sitting  here,  in  my 
den,  Mickle  street,  by  the  oakwood  fire,  in  the  same  big  strong 
old  chair  with  wolf-skin  spread  over  back  —  bright  sun,  cold,  dry 
winter  day.  America  continues  —  is  generally  busy  enough  all  over 
her  vast  demesnes  (intestinal  agitation  I  call  it,)  talking,  plodding, 
making  money,  every  one  trying  to  get  on  —  perhaps  to  get  towards 
the  top  —  but  no  special  individual  signalism  —  (just  as  well,  I 
guess.) 


508  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

"  WALT  WHIT—  The    gay    and  crowded    audience    at    the 

MAN'S  LAST  «  PUB-  Art  Rooms,  Philadelphia,  Tuesday  night, 
LIC  '  April  1 5,  1 890,  says  a  correspondent  of 

the   Boston    Transcript,  April   19,  might 

not  have  thought  thatj  W.  W.  crawl' d  out  of  a  sick  bed  a  few  hours 
before,  crying, 

Dangers  retreat  when  boldly  they're  confronted, 

and  went  over,  hoarse  and  half  blind,  to  deliver  his  memoranda  and 
essay  on  the  death  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  on  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary 
of  that  tragedy.  He  led  off  with  the  following  new  paragraph: 

"Of  Abraham  Lincoln,  bearing  testimony  twenty-five  years  after 
his  death  —  and  of  that  death  —  I  am  now  my  friends  before  you. 
Few  realize  the  days,  the  great  historic  and  esthetic  personalities,  with 
him  in  the  centre,  we  pass'd  through.  Abraham  Lincoln,  familiar, 
our  own,  an  Illinoisian,  modern,  yet  tallying  ancient  Moses,  Joshua, 
Ulysses,  or  later  Cromwell,  and  grander  in  some  respects  than  any 
of  them ;  Abraham  Lincoln,  that  makes  the  like  of  Homer,  Plutarch, 
Shakspere,  eligible  our  day  or  any  day.  My  subject  this  evening  for 
forty  or  fifty  minutes'  talk  is  the  death  of  this  man,  and  how  that 
death  will  really  filter  into  America.  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you 
anything  new ;  and  it  is  doubtless  nearly  altogether  because  I  ardently 
wish  to  commemorate  the  hour  and  martyrdom  and  name  I  am  here. 
Oft  as  the  rolling  years  bring  back  this  hour,  let  it  again,  however 
briefly,  be  dwelt  upon.  For  my  own  part  I  hope  and  intend  till  my 
own  dying  day,  whenever  the  I4th  and  i  $th  of  April  comes,  to  annu 
ally  gather  a  few  friends  and  hold  its  tragic  reminiscence.  No  narrow 
or  sectional  reminiscence.  It  belongs  to  these  States  in  their  entirety 
—  not  the  North  only,  but  the  South  —  perhaps  belongs  most  tenderly 
and  devoutly  to  the  South,  of  all ;  for  there  really  this  man's  birthstock ; 
there  and  then  his  antecedent  stamp.  Why  should  I  not  say  that  thence 
his  manliest  traits,  his  universality,  his  canny,  easy  ways  and  words 
upon  the  surface  —  his  inflexible  determination  at  heart?  Have  you 
ever  realized  it,  my  friends,  that  Lincoln,  though  grafted  on  the  West, 
is  essentially  in  personnel  and  character  a  Southern  contribution  ? " 

The  most  of  the  poet's  address  was  devoted  to  the  actual  occurrences 
and  details  of  the  murder.  We  believe  the  delivery  on  Tuesday  was 
Whitman's  thirteenth  of  it.  The  old  poet  is  now  physically  wreck' d. 
But  his  voice  and  magnetism  are  the  same.  For  the  last  month  he 
has  been  under  a  severe  attack  of  the  lately  prevailing  influenza,  the 
grip,  in  accumulation  upon  his  previous  ailments,  and,  above  all,  that 
terrible  paralysis,  the  bequest  of  secession  war  times.  He  was  dress' d 
last  Tuesday  night  in  an  entire  suit  of  French  Canadian  grey  wool 
cloth,  with  broad  shirt  collar,  with  no  necktie ;  long  white  hair,  red 
face,  full  beard  and  moustache,  and  look'd  as  though  he  might  weigh 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  509 

two  hundred  pounds.  He  had  to  be  help'd  and  led  every  step.  In 
five  weeks  more  he  will  begin  his  seventy-second  year.  He  is  still 
writing  a  little. 

INGERSOLL' S  He  attends  and  makes  a  speech  at  the  cele- 

SPEECH  bration  of  Walt    Whitman*  s  birthday.  - 

From  the  Cam  Jen  Post,  N.  J.,  Walt  Whitman  is  now  in  his  seventy- 
June  2,  1890  second  year.  His  younger  friends,  literary 

and  personal,  men  and  women,  gave  him 

a  complimentary  supper  last  Saturday  night,  to  note  the  close  of  his 
seventy-first  year,  and  the  late  curious  and  unquestionable  "boom" 
of  the  old  man's  wide-spreading  popularity,  and  that  of  his  "Leaves 
of  Grass."  There  were  thirty-five  in  the  room,  mostly  young,  but 
some  old,  or  beginning  to  be.  The  great  feature  was  IngersolPs  utter 
ance.  It  was  probably,  in  its  way,  the  most  admirable  specimen  of 
modern  oratory  hitherto  delivered  in  the  English  language,  immense  as 
such  praise  may  sound.  It  was  40  to  50  minutes  long,  altogether 
without  notes,  in  a  good  voice,  low  enough  and  not  too  low,  style 
easy,  rather  colloquial  (over  and  over  again  saying  "you"  to  Whit 
man  who  sat  opposite,)  sometimes  markedly  impassion' d,  once  or  twice 
humorous  —  amid  his  whole  speech,  from  interior  fires  and  volition, 
pulsating  and  swaying  like  a  first-class  Andalusian  dancer. 

And  such  a  critical  dissection,  and  flattering  summary  !  The  Whit- 
manites  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  were  fully  satisfied  ;  and  that  is 
saying  a  good  deal,  for  they  have  not  put  their  claims  low,  by  a  long 
shot.  Indeed  it  was  a  tremendous  talk  !  Physically  and  mentally 
Ingersoll  (he  had  been  working  all  day  in  New  York,  talking  in  court 
and  in  his  office,)  is  now  at  his  best,  like  mellow' d  wine,  or  a  just  ripe 
apple  ;  to  the  artist-sense,  too,  looks  at  his  best  —  not  merely  like  a 
bequeath' d  Roman  bust  or  fine  smooth  marble  Cicero-head,  or  even 
Greek  Plato  ;  for  he  is  modern  and  vital  and  vein'd  and  American, 
and  (far  more  than  the  age  knows,)  justifies  us  all. 

We  cannot  give  a  full  report  of  this  most  remarkable  talk  and  supper 
(which  was  curiously  conversational  and  Greek-like)  but  must  add  the 
following  significant  bit  of  it. 

After  the  speaking,  and  just  before  the  close,  Mr.  Whitman  reverted 
to  Colonel  Ingersoll' s  tribute  to  his  poems,  pronouncing  it  the  cap- 
sheaf  of  all  commendation  that  he  had  ever  receiv'd.  Then,  his  mind 
still  dwelling  upon  the  Colonel's  religious  doubts,  he  went  on  to  say 
that  what  he  himself  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  "Leaves  of 
Grass"  was  not  only  to  depict  American  life,  as  it  existed,  and  to 
show  the  triumphs  of  science,  and  the  poetry  in  common  things,  and 
the  full  of  an  individual  democratic  humanity,  for  the  aggregate,  but 
also  to  show  that  there  was  behind  all  something  which  rounded  and 


5io  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

completed  it.  "For  what,"  he  ask'd,  "would  this  life  be  without 
immortality  ?  It  would  be  as  a  locomotive,  the  greatest  triumph  of 
modern  science,  with  no  train  to  draw  after  it.  If  the  spiritual  is  not 
behind  the  material,  to  what  purpose  is  the  material  ?  What  is  this 
world  without  a  further  Divine  purpose  in  it  all  ? " 

Colonel  Ingersoll  repeated  his  former  argument  in  reply. 

FEELING  FAIRLY          Friday,  July  27,  1890.  —  Feeling  fairly 
these  days,  and   even  jovial  —  sleep  and 

appetite  good  enough  to  be  thankful  for  —  had  a  dish  of  Maryland 
blackberries,  some  good  rye  bread  and  a  cup  of  tea,  for  my  breakfast 
—  relish' d  all  —  fine  weather  —  bright  sun  to-day  —  pleasant  north 
west  breeze  blowing  in  the  open  window  as  I  sit  here  in  my  big  rattan 
chair  —  two  great  fine  roses  (white  and  red,  blooming,  fragrant,  sent 
by  mail  by  W.  S.  K.  and  wife,  Mass.)  are  in  a  glass  of  water  on  the 
table  before  me. 

Am  now  in  my  yzd  year. 

OLD  BROOKLYN  It  must  have  been  in  1822  or  '3  that  I 
DAYS  first  came  to  live  in  Brooklyn.  Lived  first 

in  Front  street,  not  far  from  what  was 

then  calPd  "the  New  Ferry,"  wending  the  river  from  the  foot  of 
Catharine  (or  Main)  street  to  New  York  city. 

I  was  a  little  child  (was  born  in  1819,)  but  tramp* d  freely  about 
the  neighborhood  and  town,  even  then ;  was  often  on  the  aforesaid 
New  Ferry  ;  remember  how  I  was  petted  and  deadheaded  by  the 
gatekeepers  and  deckhands  (all  such  fellows  are  kind  to  little  children, ) 
and  remember  the  horses  that  seem'd  to  me  so  queer  as  they  trudg'd 
around  in  the  central  houses  of  the  boats,  making  the  water-power. 
(For  it  was  just  on  the  eve  of  the  steam-engine,  which  was  soon  after 
introduced  on  the  ferries.)  Edward  Copeland  (afterward  Mayor) 
had  a  grocery  store  then  at  the  corner  of  Front  and  Catharine  streets. 

Presently  we  Whitmans  all  moved  up  toTillary  street,  near  Adams, 
where  my  father,  who  was  a  carpenter,  built  a  house  for  himself  and 
us  all.  It  was  from  here  I  "assisted  "  the  personal  coming  of  Lafay 
ette  in  1824— '5  to  Brooklyn.  He  came  over  the  Old  Ferry,  as  the 
now  Fulton  Ferry  (partly  navigated  quite  up  to  that  day  by  "  horse 
boats,"  though  the  first  steamer  had  begun  to  be  used  hereabouts)  was 
then  call'd,  and  was  receiv'd  at  the  foot  of  Fulton  street.  It  was  on 
that  occasion  that  the  corner-stone  of  the  Apprentices'  Library,  at  the 
corner  of  Cranberry  and  Henry  streets  —  since  pulPd  down  —  was 
laid  by  Lafayette's  own  hands.  Numerous  children  arrived  on  the 
grounds,  of  whom  I  was  one,  and  were  assisted  by  several  gentlemen 
to  safe  spots  to  view  the  ceremony.  Among  others,  Lafayette,  also 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  511 

helping  the  children,  took  me  up  —  I  was  five  years  old,  press' d  me  a 
moment  to  his  breast  —  gave  me  a  kiss  and  set  me  down  in  a  safe  spot. 
Lafayette  was  at  that  time  between  sixty-five  and  seventy  years  of  age, 
with  a  manly  figure  and  a  kind  face. 

TWO  QUESTIONS  An  editor  of  (or  in)  a  leading  monthly 

magazine  ("Harper's  Monthly,"  July, 

1890,)  asks  :  "  A  hundred  years  from  now  will  W.  W.  be  popularly 
rated  a  great  poet  —  or  will  he  be  forgotten  ?  "...  A  mighty  ticklish 
question  —  which  can  only  be  left  for  a  hundred  years  hence  —  per 
haps  more  than  that.  But  whether  W.  W.  has  been  mainly  rejected 
by  his  own  times  is  an  easier  question  to  answer. 

All  along  from  1860  to  '91,  many  of  the  pieces  in  L.  of  G.,  and  its 
annexes,  were  first  sent  to  publishers  or  magazine  editors  before  being 
printed  in  the  L.,  and  were  peremptorily  rejected  by  them,  and  sent 
back  to  their  author.  The  "  Eidolons  "  was  sent  back  by  Dr.  H., 
of  "Scribner's  Monthly"  with  a  lengthy,  very  insulting  and  con 
temptuous  letter.  "To  the  Sun-Set  Breeze,"  was  rejected  by  the 
editor  of  "Harper's  Monthly"  as  being  "an  improvisation"  only. 
"On,  on  ye  jocund  twain"  was  rejected  by  the  "Century"  editor 
as  being  personal  merely.  Several  of  the  pieces  went  the  rounds  of 
all  the  monthlies,  to  be  thus  summarily  rejected. 

June,  'po.  —  The rejects  and  sends  back  my  little  poem, 

so  I  am  now  set  out  in  the  cold  by  every  big  magazine  and  publisher, 
and  may  as  well  understand  and  admit  it  —  which  is  just  as  well,  for 
I  find  I  am  palpably  losing  my  sight  and  ratiocination. 

PREFACE  A  hasty  memorandum,  not  particularly  for 

To  a  volume  of  essays  and  tales  Preface  to  the  following  tales,  but  to  put 
by  Wm.  p.  O'Connor,  pub" d  on  record  m  respect  and  affection  for  as 

posthumously  in  iSOf  i  •«•  i      '  i  t 

sane,    beautiful,     cute,     tolerant,    loving, 
candid    and    free   and    fair-intention' d    a 
nature  as  ever  vivified  our  race. 

In  Boston,  1860,  I  first  met  WILLIAM  DOUGLAS  O'CONNOR.*  As 
I  saw  and  knew  him  then,  in  his  29th  year,  and  for  twenty-five  further 
years  along,  he  was  a  gallant,  handsome,  gay-hearted,  fine-voiced, 
glowing-eyed  man  ;  lithe-moving  on  his  feet,  of  healthy  and  magnetic 
atmosphere  and  presence,  and  the  most  welcome  company  in  the 

*  Born  Jan.  zd,  1832.  When  grown,  lived  several  years  in  Boston, 
and  edited  journals  and  magazines  there  —  went  about  1861  to  Washing 
ton,  D.  C.,  and  became  a  U.  S.  clerk,  first  in  the  Light-House  Bureau, 
and  then  in  the  U.  S.  Life-Saving  Service,  in  which  branch  he  was  Assis 
tant  Superintendent  for  many  years  —  sicken' d  in  1887 — died  there  at 
Washington,  May  9th,  1889. 
34 


5i2  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

world.  He  was  a  thorough-going  anti-slavery  believer,  speaker  and 
writer,  (doctrinaire,)  and  though  I  took  a  fancy  to  him  from  the  first, 
I  remember  I  fear*  d  his  ardent  abolitionism  —  was  afraid  it  would 
probably  keep  us  apart.  (I  was  a  decided  and  out-spoken  anti-slavery 
believer  myself,  then  and  always  ;  but  shy'd  from  the  extremists,  the 
red-hot  fellows  of  those  times.)  O'C.  was  then  correcting  the  proofs 
of  Harrington,  an  eloquent  and  fiery  novel  he  had  written,  and  which 
was  printed  just  before  the  commencement  of  the  secession  war.  He 
was  already  married,  the  father  of  two  fine  little  children,  and  was 
personally  and  intellectually  the  most  attractive  man  I  had  ever  met. 

Last  of  '62  I  found  myself  led  towards  the  war-field  —  went  to 
Washington  city — (to  become  absorb' d  in  the  armies,  and  in  the 
big  hospitals,  and  to  get  work  in  one  of  the  Departments,) — and 
there  I  met  and  resumed  friendship,  and  found  warm  hospitality  from 
O'C.  and  his  noble  New  England  wife.  They  had  just  lost  by  death 
their  little  child-boy,  Phillip  ;  and  O'C.  was  yet  feeling  serious  about 
it.  The  youngster  had  been  vaccinated  against  the  threatening  of 
small-pox  which  alarm*  d  the  city  ;  but  somehow  it  led  to  worse 
results  than  it  was  intended  to  ward  off — or  at  any  rate  O'C.  thought 
that  proved  the  cause  of  the  boy's  death.  He  had  one  child  left,  a 
fine  bright  little  daughter,  and  a  great  comfort  to  her  parents.  (Dear 
Jeannie  !  She  grew  up  a  most  accomplish' d  and  superior  young 
woman  —  declined  in  health,  and  died  about  1881. 

On  through  for  months  and  years  to  '73  I  saw  and  talk'd  with 
O'C.  almost  daily.  I  had  soon  got  employment,  first  for  a  short  time 
in  the  Indian  Bureau  (in  the  Interior  Department,)  and  then  for  a 
long  while  in  the  Attorney  General's  Office.  The  secession  war, 
with  its  tide  of  varying  fortunes,  excitements  —  President  Lincoln  and 
the  daily  sight  of  him  —  the  doings  in  Congress  and  at  the  State  Capi 
tols  —  the  news  from  the  fields  and  campaigns,  and  from  foreign  gov 
ernments  —  my  visits  to  the  Army  Hospitals,  daily  and  nightly,  soon 
absorbing  everything  else,  —  with  a  hundred  matters,  occurrences, 
personalties,  —  (Greeley,  Wendell  Phillips,  the  parties,  the  Aboli 
tionists,  &c.)  —  were  the  subjects  of  our  talk  and  discussion.  I  am 
not  sure  from  what  I  heard  then,  but  O'C.  was  cut  out  for  a  first-class 
public  speaker  or  forensic  advocate.  No  audience  or  jury  could  have 
stood  out  against  him.  He  had  a  strange  charm  of  physiologic  voice. 
He  had  a  power  and  sharp-cut  faculty  of  statement  and  persuasiveness 
beyond  any  man's  else.  I  know  it  well,  for  I  have  felt  it  many  a 
time.  If  not  as  orator,  his  forte  was  as  critic,  newer,  deeper  than 
any  :  also,  as  literary  author.  One  of  his  traits  was  that  while  he 
knew  all,  and  welcom'd  all  sorts  of  great  genre  literature,  all  lands  and 
times,  from  all  writers  and  artists,  and  not  only  tolerated  each,  and 
defended  every  attack' d  literary  person  with  a  skill  or  heart-catholicism 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  513 

that  I  never  saw  equal' d  —  invariably  advocated  and  excused  them  — 
he  kept  an  idiosyncrasy  and  identity  of  his  own  very  mark'd,  and 
without  special  tinge  or  undue  color  from  any  source.  He  always 
applauded  the  freedom  of  the  masters,  whence  and  whoever.  I 
remember  his  special  defences  of  Byron,  Burns,  Poe,  Rabelais,  Victor 
Hugo,  George  Sand,  and  others.  There  was  always  a  little  touch  of 
pensive  cadence  in  his  superb  voice  ;  and  I  think  there  was  something 
of  the  same  sadness  in  his  temperament  and  nature.  Perhaps,  too, 
in  his  literary  structure.  But  he  was  a  very  buoyant,  jovial,  good- 
natured  companion. 

So  much  for  a  hasty  melanged  reminiscence  and  note  of  William 
O'Connor,  my  dear,  dear  friend,  and  staunch,  (probably  my  staunch- 
est)  literary  believer  and  champion  from  the  first,  and  throughout 
without  halt  or  demur,  for  twenty-five  years.  No  better  friend  — 
none  more  reliable  through  this  life  of  one's  ups  and  downs.  On 
the  occurrence  of  the  latter  he  would  be  sure  to  make  his  appearance 
on  the  scene,  eager,  hopeful,  full  of  fight  like  a  perfect  knight  of 
chivalry.  For  he  was  a  born  sample  here  in  the  I9th  century  of  the 
flower  and  symbol  of  olden  time  first-class  knighthood.  Thrice 
blessed  be  his  memory  !  W.  W. 

AN  ENGINEER'S  THOMAS  JEFFERSON  WHITMAN  was  born 

OBITUARY  July  18,  1833,  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 

From  the  Engineering  Record,  from  a  father  of  English  stock,  and 
Ne-w  York,  Dec.  13,  1890  mother  (Louisa  Van  Velsor)  descended 

from  Dutch  (Holland)  immigration.  His 

early  years  were  spent  on  Long  Island,  either  in  the  country  or 
Brooklyn.  As  a  lad  he  show'd  a  tendency  for  surveying  and  civil 
engineering,  and  about  at  19  went  with  Chief  Kirkwood,  who  was 
then  prospecting  and  outlining  for  the  great  city  water-works.  He 
remain*  d  at  that  construction  throughout,  was  a  favorite  and  confidant 
of  the  Chief,  and  was  successively  promoted.  He  continued  also 
under  Chief  Moses  Lane.  He  married  in  1859,  anc*  not  l°ng  a^ter 
was  invited  by  the  Board  of  Public  Works  of  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  to 
come  there  and  plan  and  build  a  new  and  fitting  water-works  for  that 
great  city.  Whitman  accepted  the  call,  and  moved  and  settled  there, 
and  had  been  a  resident  of  St.  Louis  ever  since.  He  plann'd  and 
built  the  works,  which  were  very  successful,  and  remain' d  as  super 
intendent  and  chief  for  nearly  20  years. 

Of  the  last  six  years  he  has  been  largely  occupied  as  consulting 
engineer  (divested  of  his  cares  and  position  in  St.  Louis,)  and  has 
engaged  in  public  constructions,  bridges,  sewers,  &c.,  West  and 
Southwest,  and  especially  the  Memphis,  Tenn.,  city  water- works. 

Thomas  J.  Whitman  was  a  theoretical  and  practical  mechanic  of 


COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

superior  order,  founded  in  the  soundest  personal  and  professional 
integrity.  He  was  a  great  favorite  among  the  young  engineers  and 
students  ;  not  a  few  of  them  yet  remaining  in  Kings  and  Queens 
counties,  and  New  York  city,  will  remember  "Jeff,"  with  old- 
time  good-will  and  affection.  He  was  mostly  self-taught,  and  was  a 
hard  student. 

He  had  been  troubled  of  late  years  from  a  bad  throat  and  from 
gastric  affection,  tending  on  typhoid,  and  had  been  rather  seriously 
ill  with  the  last  malady,  but  was  getting  over  the  worst  of  it,  when 
he  succumb*  d  under  a  sudden  and  severe  attack  of  the  heart.  He 
died  at  St.  Louis,  November  25,  1890,  in  his  58th  year.  Of  his 
family,  the  wife  died  in  1873,  an<^  a  daughter,  Mannahatta,  died 
two  years  ago.  Another  daughter,  Jessie  Louisa,  the  only  child  left, 
is  now  living  in  St.  Louis. 

[When  Jeff  was  born  I  was  in  my  1 5th  year,  and  had  much  care 
of  him  for  many  years  afterward,  and  he  did  not  separate  from  me. 
He  was  a  very  handsome,  healthy,  affectionate,  smart  child,  and 
would  sit  on  my  lap  or  hang  on  my  neck  half  an  hour  at  a  time. 
As  he  grew  a  big  boy  he  liked  outdoor  and  water  sports,  especially 
boating.  We  would  often  go  down  summers  to  Peconic  Bay,  east 
end  of  Long  Island,  and  over  to  Shelter  Island.  I  loved  long  ram 
bles,  and  he  carried  his  fowling-piece.  O,  what  happy  times, 
weeks !  Then  in  Brooklyn  and  New  York  city  he  learn*  d  printing, 
and  work'd  awhile  at  it;  but  eventually  (with  my  approval)  he 
went  to  employment  at  land  surveying,  and  merged  in  the  studies 
and  work  of  topographical  engineer ;  this  satisfied  him,  and  he  con 
tinued  at  it.  He  was  of  noble  nature  from  the  first ;  very  good- 
natured,  very  plain,  very  friendly.  O,  how  we  loved  each  other  — 
how  many  jovial  good  times  we  had  !  Once  we  made  a  long  trip 
from  New  York  city  down  over  the  Allegheny  mountains  (the 
National  Road)  and  via  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  rivers,  from  Cairo 
to  New  Orleans.] 

God's  blessing  on  your  name  and  memory,  dear  brother  Jeff! 

W.  W. 

OLD  ACTORS,  Seems   to   me    I   ought  acknowledge  my 

SINGERS,  SHOWS,  debt  to   actors,    singers,  public  speakers, 

&C.,  IN  NEW  YORK  conventions,  and  the  Stage  in  New  York, 

Flitting  mention — (with   much  my  youthful  days,  from   1835  onward  — 

iff  tout)  say    to  »60    or  >6! — ancj  to  plays  and 

operas  generally.     (Which  nudges  a  pretty 

big  disquisition  :  of  course  it  should  be  all  elaborated  and  penetrated 
more  deeply  —  but  I  will  here  give  only  some  flitting  mentionings  of  my 
youth.)  Seems  to  me  now  when  I  look  back,  the  Italian  contralto 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  515 

Marietta  Alboni  (she  is  living  yet,  in  Paris,  1891,  in  good  condition, 
good  voice  yet,  considering)  with  the  then  prominent  histrions  Booth, 
Edwin  Forrest,  and  Fanny  Kemble  and  the  Italian  singer  Bettini,  have 
had  the  deepest  and  most  lasting  effect  upon  me.  I  should  like  well 
if  Madame  Alboni  and  the  old  composer  Verdi,  (and  Bettini  the  tenor, 
if  he  is  living)  could  know  how  much  noble  pleasure  and  happiness 
they  gave  me,  and  how  deeply  I  always  remember  them  and  thank  them 
to  this  day.  For  theatricals  in  literature  and  doubtless  upon  me  per 
sonally,  including  opera,  have  been  of  course  serious  factors.  (The 
experts  and  musicians  of  my  present  friends  claim  that  the  new 
Wagner  and  his  pieces  belong  far  more  truly  to  me,  and  I  to  them, 
likely.  But  I  was  fed  and  bred  under  the  Italian  dispensation,  and 
absorb* d  it,  and  doubtless  show  it.) 

As  a  young  fellow,  when  possible  I  always  studied  a  play  or  libretto 
quite  carefully  over,  by  myself,  (sometimes  twice  through)  before 
seeing  it  on  the  stage ;  read  it  the  day  or  two  days  before.  Tried 
both  ways  —  not  reading  some  beforehand;  but  I  found  I  gain'd  most 
by  getting  that  sort  of  mastery  first,  if  the  piece  had  depth.  (Surface 
effects  and  glitter  were  much  less  thought  of,  I  am  sure,  those  times.) 
There  were  many  fine  old  plays,  neither  tragedies  nor  comedies — the 
names  of  them  quite  unknown  to  to-day's  current  audiences.  "All  is 
not  Gold  that  Glitters,"  in  which  Charlotte  Cushman  had  a  superbly 
enacted  part,  was  of  that  kind.  C.  C.,  who  revel' d  in  them,  was 
great  in  such  pieces  ;  I  think  better  than  in  the  heavy  popular  roles. 

We  had  some  fine  music  those  days.  We  had  the  English  opera 
of  "Cinderella"  (with  Henry  Placide  as  the  pompous  old  father,  an 
unsurpassable  bit  of  comedy  and  music.)  We  had  Bombastes  Furioso. 
Must  have  been  in  1844  (or  '5)  I  saw  Charles  Kean  and  Mrs.  Kean 
(Ellen  Tree)  — saw  them  in  the  Park  in  Shakspere's  "King  John." 
He,  of  course,  was  the  chief  character.  She  play'd  Queen  Constance. 
Tom  Hamblin  was  Faulconbridgey  and  probably  the  best  ever  on  the 
stage.  It  was  an  immense  show-piece,  too  ;  lots  of  grand  set  scenes 
and  fine  armor-suits  and  all  kinds  of  appointments  imported  from  Lon 
don  (where  it  had  been  first  render'd.)  The  large  brass  bands  —  the 
three  or  four  hundred  "  supes  "  — the  interviews  between  the  French 
and  English  armies  —  the  talk  with  Hubert  (and  the  hot  irons)  the 
delicious  acting  of  Prince  Arthur  (Mrs.  Richardson,  I  think)  — and 
all  the  fine  blare  and  court  pomp  —  I  remember  to  this  hour.  The 
death-scene  of  the  King  in  the  orchard  of  Swinstead  Abbey,  was  very 
effective.  Kean  rush'd  in,  gray-pale  and  yellow,  and  threw  himself 
on  a  lounge  in  the  open.  His  pangs  were  horribly  realistic.  (He 
must  have  taken  lessons  in  some  hospital.) 

Fanny  Kemble  play'd  to  wonderful  effect  in  such  pieces  as  "  Fazio, 
or  the  Italian  wife."  The  turning-point  was  jealousy.  It  was  a 


5i6  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

rapid-running,  yet  heavy-timber' d,  tremendous  wrenching,  passionate 
play.  Such  old  pieces  always  seem'd  to  me  built  like  an  ancient  ship 
of  the  line,  solid  and  lock'd  from  keel  up — oak  and  metal  and  knots. 
One  of  the  finest  characters  was  a  great  court  lady,  Aldabella,  enacted 
by  Mrs.  Sharpe.  O  how  it  all  entranced  us,  and  knock*  d  us  about, 
as  the  scenes  swept  on  like  a  cyclone ! 

Saw  Hackett  at  the  old  Park  many  times,  and  remember  him  well. 
His  renderings  were  first-rate  in  everything.  He  inaugurated  the  true 
"  Rip  Van  Winkle,"  and  look'd  and  acted  and  dialogued  it  to  perfec 
tion  (he  was  of  Dutch  breed,  and  brought  up  among  old  Holland 
descendants  in  Kings  and  Queens  counties,  Long  Island. )  The  play 
and  the  acting  of  it  have  been  adjusted  to  please  popular  audiences 
since  ;  but  there  was  in  that  original  performance  certainly  something 
of  a  far  higher  order,  more  art,  more  reality,  more  resemblance,  a  bit 
of  fine  pathos,  a  lofty  brogue,  beyond  anything  afterward. 

One  of  my  big  treats  was  the  rendering  at  the  old  Park  of  Shaks- 
pere's  "Tempest"  in  musical  version.  There  was  a  very  fine  instru 
mental  band,  not  numerous,  but  with  a  capital  leader.  Mrs.  Austin 
was  the  Ariel,  and  Peter  Richings  the  Caliban;  both  excellent.  The 
drunken  song  of  the  latter  has  probably  been  never  equal' d.  The 
perfect  actor  Clarke  (old  Clarke)  was  Prospers. 

Yes;  there  were  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn  some  fine  non-tech 
nical  singing  performances,  concerts,  such  as  the  Hutchinson  band, 
three  brothers,  and  the  sister,  the  red-cheek' d  New  England  carnation, 
sweet  Abby ;  sometimes  plaintive  and  balladic — sometimes  anti-slavery, 
anti-calomel,  and  comic.  There  were  concerts  by  Templeton,  Russell, 
Dempster,  the  old  Alleghanian  band,  and  many  others.  Then  we 
had  lots  of  "negro  minstrels,"  with  capital  character  songs  and  voices. 
I  often  saw  Rice  the  original  "Jim  Crow"  at  the  old  Park  Theatre 
filling  up  the  gap  in  some  short  bill  —  and  the  wild  chants  and  dances 
were  admirable  —  probably  ahead  of  anything  since.  Every  theatre 
had  some  superior  voice,  and  it  was  common  to  give  a  favorite  song 
between  the  acts.  "The  Sea"  at  the  bijou  Olympic,  (Broadway 
near  Grand,)  was  always  welcome  from  a  little  Englishman  named 
Edwin,  a  good  balladist.  At  the  Bowery  the  loves  of  "Sweet 
William," 

"When  on  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd," 

always  bro't  an  encore,  and  sometimes  a  treble. 

I  remember  Jenny  Lind  and  heard  her  (1850  I  think)  several 
times.  She  had  the  most  brilliant,  captivating,  popular  musical  style 
and  expression  of  any  one  known ;  (the  canary,  and  several  other 
sweet  birds  are  wondrous  fine — but  there  is  something  in  song  that 
goes  deeper — isn't  there?) 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  517 

The  great  "Egyptian  Collection"  was  well  up  in  Broadway,  and 
I  got  quite  acquainted  with  Dr.  Abbott,  the  proprietor — paid  many 
visits  there,  and  had  long  talks  with  him,  in  connection  with  my 
readings  of  many  books  and  reports  on  Egypt — its  antiquities,  his 
tory,  and  how  things  and  the  scenes  really  look,  and  what  the  old 
relics  stand  for,  as  near  as  we  can  now  get.  (Dr.  A.  was  an 
Englishman  of  say  54 — had  been  settled  in  Cairo  as  physician  for 
25  years,  and  all  that  time  was  collecting  these  relics,  and  sparing 
no  time  or  money  seeking  and  getting  them.  By  advice  and  for  a 
change  of  base  for  himself,  he  brought  the  collection  to  America. 
But  the  whole  enterprise  was  a  fearful  disappointment,  in  the  pay 
and  commercial  part.)  As  said,  I  went  to  the  Egyptian  Museum 
many  many  times ;  sometimes  had  it  all  to  myself —  delved  at  the 
formidable  catalogue  —  and  on  several  occasions  had  the  invaluable 
personal  talk,  correction,  illustration  and  guidance  of  Dr.  A.  himself. 
He  was  very  kind  and  helpful  to  me  in  those  studies  and  examina 
tions;  once,  by  appointment,  he  appear' d  in  full  and  exact  Turkish 
(Cairo)  costume,  which  long  usage  there  had  made  habitual  to  him. 

One  of  the  choice  places  of  New  York  to  me  then  was  the 
"Phrenological  Cabinet"  of  Fowler  &  Wells,  Nassau  street  near 
Beekman.  Here  were  all  the  busts,  examples,  curios  and  books  of 
that  study  obtainable.  I  went  there  often,  and  once  for  myself  had 
a  very  elaborate  and  leisurely  examination  and  "chart  of  bumps" 
written  out  (I  have  it  yet,)  by  Nelson  Fowler  (or  was  it  Sizer?)  there. 

And  who  remembers  the  renown1  d  New  York  "Tabernacle"  of 
those  days  "before  the  war"  ?  It  was  on  the  east  side  of  Broadway, 
near  Pearl  street  —  was  a  great  turtle-shaped  hall,  and  you  had  to 
walk  back  from  the  street  entrance  thro*  a  long  wide  corridor  to  get 
to  it — was  very  strong  —  had  an  immense  gallery  —  altogether  held 
three  or  four  thousand  people.  Here  the  huge  annual  conventions 
of  the  windy  and  cyclonic  "reformatory  societies"  of  those  times 
were  held — especially  the  tumultuous  Anti-Slavery  ones.  I  remem 
ber  hearing  Wendell  Phillips,  Emerson,  Cassius  Clay,  John  P.  Hale, 
Beecher,  Fred  Douglas,  the  Burleighs,  Garrison,  and  others.  Some 
times  the  Hutchinsons  would  sing — very  fine.  Sometimes  there 
were  angry  rows.  A  chap  named  Isaiah  Rhynders,  a  fierce  politician 
of  those  days,  with  a  band  of  robust  supporters,  would  attempt  to 
contradict  the  speakers  and  break  up  the  meetings.  But  the  Anti- 
Slavery,  and  Quaker,  and  Temperance,  and  Missionary  and  other 
conventicles  and  speakers  were  tough,  tough,  and  always  maintained 
their  ground,  and  carried  out  their  programs  fully.  I  went  fre 
quently  to  these  meetings,  May  after  May — learn' d  much  from  them 
—was  sure  to  be  on  hand  when  J.  P.  Hale  or  Cash  Clay  made 
speeches. 


5i8  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

There  were  also  the  smaller  and  handsome  halls  of  the  Historical 
and  Athenaeum  Societies  up  on  Broadway.  I  very  well  remember 
W.  C.  Bryant  lecturing  on  Homoeopathy  in  one  of  them,  and  attend 
ing  two  or  three  addresses  by  R.  W.  Emerson  in  the  other. 

There  was  a  series  of  plays  and  dramatic  genre  characters  by  a 
gentleman  bilPd  as  Ranger — very  fine,  better  than  merely  technical, 
full  of  exquisite  shades,  like  the  light  touches  of  the  violin  in  the 
hands  of  a  master.  There  was  the  actor  Anderson,  who  brought  us 
Gerald  Griffin's  "Gysippus,"  and  play'd  it  to  admiration.  Among 
the  actors  of  those  times  I  recall :  Cooper,  Wallack,  Tom  Hamblin, 
Adams  (several),  Old  Gates,  Scott,  Wm.  Sefton,  John  Sefton,  Geo. 
Jones,  Mitchell,  Seguin,  Old  Clarke,  Richings,  Fisher,  H.  Placide, 
T.  Placide,  Thome,  Ingersoll,  Gale  (Mazeppa)  Edwin,  Horncastle. 
Some  of  the  women  hastily  remember' d  were:  Mrs.  Vernon,  Mrs. 
Pritchard,  Mrs.  McClure,  Mary  Taylor,  Clara  Fisher,  Mrs.  Rich 
ardson,  Mrs.  Flynn.  Then  the  singers,  English,  Italian  and  other  : 
Mrs.  Wood,  Mrs.  Seguin,  Mrs.  Austin,  Grisi,  La  Grange,  Steffanone, 
Bosio,  Truffi,  Parodi,  Vestvali,  Bertucca,  Jenny  Lind,  Gazzaniga, 
Laborde.  And  the  opera  men :  Bettini,  Badiali,  Marini,  Mario, 
Brignoli,  Amodio,  Beneventano,  and  many,  many  others  whose  names 
I  do  not  at  this  moment  recall. 

In  another  paper  I  have  described  the  elder  Booth,  and  the  Bowery 
Theatre  of  those  times.  Afterward  there  was  the  Chatham.  The 
elder  Thorne,  Mrs.  Thorne,  William  and  John  Sefton,  Kirby, 
Brougham,  and  sometimes  Edwin  Forrest  himself  play'd  there.  I 
remember  them  all,  and  many  more,  and  especially  the  fine  theatre  on 
Broadway  near  Pearl,  in  1855  anc^  '6. 

There  were  very  good  circus  performances,  or  horsemanship,  in 
New  York  and  Brooklyn.  Every  winter  in  the  first-named  city,  a 
regular  place  in  the  Bowery,  nearly  opposite  the  old  theatre  ;  fine 
animals  and  fine  riding,  which  I  often  witness' d.  (Remember  see 
ing  near  here,  a  young,  fierce,  splendid  lion,  presented  by  an  African 
Barbary  Sultan  to  President  Andrew  Jackson.  The  gift  comprised 
also  a  lot  of  jewels,  a  fine  steel  sword,  and  an  Arab  stallion  ;  and  the 
lion  was  made  over  to  a  show-man.) 

If  it  is  worth  while  I  might  add  that  there  was  a  small  but  well- 
appointed  amateur-theatre  up  Broadway,  with  the  usual  stage,  orches 
tra,  pit,  boxes,  &c.,  and  that  I  was  myself  a  member  for  some  time, 
and  acted  parts  in  it  several  times — "second  parts"  as  they  were 
call'd.  Perhaps  it  too  was  a  lesson,  or  help'd  that  way  ;  at  any  rate 
it  was  full  of  fun  and  enjoyment. 

And  so  let  us  turn  off  the  gas.  Out  in  the  brilliancy  of  the  foot 
lights —  filling  the  attention  of  perhaps  a  crowded  audience,  and 
making  many  a  breath  and  pulse  swell  and  rise  —  O  so  much  passion 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  519 

and  imparted  life  !  — over  and  over  again,  the  season  through  — walk 
ing,  gesticulating,  singing,  reciting  his  or  her  part  —  But  then  sooner 
or  later  inevitably  wending  to  the  flies  or  exit  door — vanishing  to 
sight  and  ear  —  and  never  materializing  on  this  earth's  stage  again  ! 

SOME  PERSONAL  Anything  like  unmitigated  acceptance  of 
AND  OLD-AGE  my  "Leaves  of  Grass ' '  book,  and  heart-felt 

JOTTINGS  response  to  it,  in  a  popular  however  faint 

degree,   bubbled    forth   as  a   fresh    spring 

from  the  ground  in  England  in  1876.  The  time  was  a  critical  and 
turning  point  in  my  personal  and  literary  life.  Let  me  revert  to  my 
memorandum  book,  Camden,  New  Jersey,  that  year,  fill'd  with 
addresses,  receipts,  purchases,  &c.,  of  the  two  volumes  pub'd  then  by 
myself — the  "  Leaves,"  and  the  "Two  Rivulets"  —  some  home 
customers,  for  them,  but  mostly  from  the  British  Islands.  I  was  seri 
ously  paralyzed  from  the  Secession  war,  poor,  in  debt,  was  expecting 
death,  (the  doctors  put  four  chances  out  of  five  against  me,)  — and  I 
had  the  books  printed  during  the  lingering  interim  to  occupy  the  tedi- 
ousness  of  glum  days  and  nights.  Curiously,  the  sale  abroad  proved 
prompt,  and  what  one  might  call  copious  :  the  names  came  in  lists  and 
the  money  with  them,  by  foreign  mail.  The  price  was  $10  a  set. 
Both  the  cash  and  the  emotional  cheer  were  deep  medicines  ;  many 
paid  double  or  treble  price,  (Tennyson  and  Ruskin  did,)  and  many 
sent  kind  and  eulogistic  letters ;  ladies,  clergymen,  social  leaders,  per 
sons  of  rank,  and  high  officials.  Those  blessed  gales  from  the 
British  Islands  probably  (certainly)  saved  me.  Here  are  some  of  the 
names,  for  I  w'd  like  to  preserve  them  :  Wm.  M.  and  D.  G.  Ros- 
setti,  Lord  Houghton,  Edwd.  Dowden,  Mrs.  Anne  Gilchrist,  Kenin- 
gale  Cook,  Edwd.  Carpenter,  Therese  Simpson,  Rob't  Buchanan, 
Alfred  Tennyson,  John  Ruskin,  C.  G.  Oates,  E.  T.  Wilkinson, 
T.  L.  Warren,  C.  W.  Reynell,  W.  B.  Scott,  A.  G.  Dew  Smith, 
E.  W.  Gosse,  T.  W.  Rolleston,  Geo.  Wallis,  Rafe  Leicester,  Thos. 
Dixon,  N.  MacColl,  Mrs.  Matthews,  R.  Hannah,  Geo.  Saintsbury, 
R.  S.  Watson,  Godfrey  and  Vernon  Lushington,  G.  H.  Lewes, 
G.  H.  Boughton,  Geo.  Fraser,  W.  T.  Arnold,  A.  Ireland,  Mrs.  M. 
Taylor,  M.  D.  Conway,  Benj.  Eyre,  E.  Dannreather,  Rev.  T.  E. 
Brown,  C.  W.  Sheppard,  E.  J.  A.  Balfour,  P.  B.  Marston,  A.  C. 
De  Burgh,  J.  H.  McCarthy,  J.  H.  Ingram,  Rev.  R.  P.  Graves, 
Lady  Mount-temple,  F.  S.  Ellis,  W.  Brockie,  Rev.  A.  B.  Grosart, 
Lady  Hardy,  Hubert  Herkomer,  Francis  Hueffer,  H.  G.  Dakyns, 
R.  L.  Nettleship,  W.  J.  Stillman,  Miss  Blind,  Madox  Brown, 
H.  R.  Ricardo,  Messrs.  O'Grady  and  Tyrrel  ;  and  many,  many 
more. 

Severely  scann'd,  it  was  perhaps  no  very  great  or  vehement  success  ; 


520  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

but  the  tide  had  palpably  shifted  at  any  rate,  and  the  sluices  were 
turn'd  into  my  own  veins  and  pockets.  That  emotional,  audacious, 
open-handed,  friendly-mouth 'd  just-opportune  English  action,  I  say, 
pluck' d  me  like  a  brand  from  the  burning,  and  gave  me  life  again,  to 
finish  my  book,  since  ab't  completed.  I  do  not  forget  it,  and  shall 
not ;  and  if  I  ever  have  a  biographer  I  charge  him  to  put  it  in  the 
narrative.  I  have  had  the  noblest  friends  and  backers  in  America  ; 
Wm.  O'Connor,  Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke,  John  Burroughs,  Geo.  W. 
Childs,  good  ones  in  Boston,  and  Carnegie  and  R.  G.  Ingersoll  in 
New  York  ;  and  yet  perhaps  the  tenderest  and  gratefulest  breath  of 
my  heart  has  gone,  and  ever  goes,  over  the  sea-gales  across  the  big 
pond. 

About  myself  at  present.  I  will  soon  enter  upon  my  73d  year,  if 
I  live  — have  pass'd  an  active  life,  as  country  school-teacher,  gardener, 
printer,  carpenter,  author  and  journalist,  domicil'd  in  nearly  all  the 
United  States  and  principal  cities,  North  and  South  —  went  to  the 
front  (moving  about  and  occupied  as  army  nurse  and  missionary) 
during  the  secession  war,  1861  to  '65,  and  in  the  Virginia  hospitals 
and  after  the  battles  of  that  time,  tending  the  Northern  and  Southern 
wounded  alike  —  work'd  down  South  and  in  Washington  city  ardu 
ously  three  years  —  contracted  the  paralysis  which  I  have  suffer* d  ever 
since  —  and  now  live  in  a  little  cottage  of  my  own,  near  the  Delaware 
in  New  Jersey.  My  chief  book,  unrhym'd  and  unmetrical  (it  has 
taken  thirty  years,  peace  and  war,  "a  borning  ")  has  its  aim,  as  once 
said,  "  to  utter  the  same  old  human  critter — but  now  in  Democratic 
American  modern  and  scientific  conditions."  Then  I  have  publish* d 
two  prose  works,  "Specimen  Days,"  and  a  late  one,  "November 
Boughs."  (A  little  volume,  "Good-Bye  my  Fancy,"  is  soon  to  be 
out,  wh'  will  finish  the  matter. )  I  do  not  propose  here  to  enter  the 
much-fought  field  of  the  literary  criticism  of  any  of  those  works. 

But  for  a  few  portraiture  or  descriptive  bits.  To-day  in  the  upper 
story  of  a  little  wooden  house  of  two  stories  near  the  Delaware  river,  east 
shore,  sixty  miles  up  from  the  sea,  is  a  rather  large  2O-by-zo  low 
ceiling' d  room  something  like  a  big  old  ship's  cabin.  The  floor, 
three  quarters  of  it  with  an  ingrain  carpet,  is  half  cover' d  by  a  deep 
litter  of  books,  papers,  magazines,  thrown-down  letters  and  circulars, 
rejected  manuscripts,  memoranda,  bits  of  light  or  strong  twine,  a  bun 
dle  to  be  "  express* d,"  and  two  or  three  venerable  scrap  books.  In 
the  room  stand  two  large  tables  (one  of  ancient  St.  Domingo  mahog 
any  with  immense  leaves)  cover' d  by  a  jumble  of  more  papers,  a 
varied  and  copious  array  of  writing  materials,  several  glass  and  china 
vessels  or  jars,  some  with  cologne-water,  others  with  real  honey, 
granulated  sugar,  a  large  bunch  of  beautiful  fresh  yellow  chrysanthe 
mums,  some  letters  and  envelopt  papers  ready  for  the  post  office, 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  521 

many  photographs,  and  a  hundred  indescribable  things  besides.  There 
are  all  around  many  books,  some  quite  handsome  editions,  some  half 
cover' d  by  dust,  some  within  reach,  evidently  used,  (good-sized 
print,  no  type  less  than  long  primer,)  some  maps,  the  Bible,  (the 
strong  cheap  edition  of  the  English  crown,)  Homer,  Shakspere,  Wal 
ter  Scott,  Emerson,  Ticknor's  "Spanish  Literature,"  John  Carlyle's 
Dante,  Felton's  "  Greece,"  George  Sand's  "  Consuelo,"  a  very  choice 
little  Epictetus,  some  novels,  the  latest  foreign  and  American  monthlies, 
quarterlies,  and  so  on.  There  being  quite  a  strew  of  printer's  proofs 
and  slips,  and  the  daily  papers,  the  place  with  its  quaint  old  fashion' d 
calmness  has  also  a  smack  of  something  alert  and  of  current  work. 
There  are  several  trunks  and  depositaries  back'd  up  at  the  walls ;  (one 
well-bound  and  big  box  came  by  express  lately  from  Washington 
city,  after  storage  there  for  nearly  twenty  years.)  Indeed  the  whole 
room  is  a  sort  of  result  and  storage  collection  of  my  own  past  life.  I 
have  here  various  editions  of  my  own  writings,  and  sell  them  upon 
request;  one  is  a  big  volume  of  complete  poems  and  prose,  1000 
pages,  autograph,  essays,  speeches,  portraits  from  life,  &c.  Another 
is  a  little  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  latest  date,  six  portraits,  morocco  bound, 
in  pocket-book  form. 

Fortunately  the  apartment  is  quite  roomy.  There  are  three  win 
dows  in  front.  At  one  side  is  the  stove,  with  a  cheerful  fire  of  oak 
wood,  near  by  a  good  supply  of  fresh  sticks,  whose  faint  aroma  is 
plain.  On  another  side  is  the  bed  with  white  coverlid  and  woollen 
blankets.  Toward  the  windows  is  a  huge  arm-chair,  (a  Christmas 
present  from  Thomas  Donaldson's  young  daughter  and  son,  Philadel 
phia)  timber' d  as  by  some  stout  ship's  spars,  yellow  polish' d,  ample, 
with  rattan-woven  seat  and  back,  and  over  the  latter  a  great  wide 
wolf-skin  of  hairy  black  and  silver,  spread  to  guard  against  cold  and 
draught.  A  time-worn  look  and  scent  of  old  oak  attach  both  to  the 
chair  and  the  person  occupying  it. 

But  probably  (even  at  the  charge  of  parrot  talk)  I  can  give  no  more 
authentic  brief  sketch  than  "  from  an  old  remembrance  copy,"  where  I 
have  lately  put  myself  on  record  as  follows  :  Was  born  May  31,  1819, 
in  my  father's  farm-house,  at  West  Hills,  L.  I.,  New  York  State. 
My  parents'  folks  mostly  farmers  and  sailors  —  on  my  father's  side,  of 
English — on  my  mother's  (Van  Velsor's),  from  Hollandic  immigra 
tion.  There  was,  first  and  last,  a  large  family  of  children  ;  (I  was 
the  second.)  We  moved  to  Brooklyn  while  I  was  still  a  little  one  in 
frocks  —  and  there  in  B.  I  grew  up  out  of  frocks  —  then  as  child  and 
boy  went  to  the  public  schools  —  then  to  work  in  a  printing  office. 
When  only  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old,  and  for  three  years  afterward, 
I  went  to  teaching  country  schools  down  in  Queens  and  Suffolk  coun 
ties,  Long  Island,  and  "boarded  round."  Then,  returning  to  New 


522  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

York,    work'd    as    printer    and   writer,    (with   an   occasional    shy    at 
"  poetry. ") 

1 848-^9.  — About  this  time  —  after  ten  or  twelve  years  of  expe 
riences  and  work  and  lots  of  fun  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn  —  went 
off  on  a  leisurely  journey  and  working  expedition  (my  brother  Jeff 
with  me)  through  all  the  Middle  States,  and  down  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi  rivers.  Lived  a  while  in  New  Orleans,  and  work'd 
there.  (Have  lived  quite  a  good  deal  in  the  Southern  States.) 
After  a  time,  plodded  back  northward,  up  the  Mississippi,  the  Mis 
souri,  &c.,  and  around  to,  and  by  way  of,  the  great  lakes,  Michigan, 
Huron  and  Erie,  to  Niagara  Falls  and  Lower  Canada  —  finally  re 
turning  through  Central  New  York,  and  down  the  Hudson.  1852- 
'54  —  Occupied  in  house-building  in  Brooklyn.  (For  a  little  while 
of  the  first  part  of  that  time  in  printing  a  daily  and  weekly  paper. ) 

1855.  —  Lost  my  dear  father  this  year  by  death.  .  .  .  Com 
menced  putting  "  Leaves  of  Grass'*  to  press,  for  good  —  after  many 
MSS.  doings  and  undoings  —  (I  had  great  trouble  in  leaving  out  the 
stock  "poetical"  touches  —  but  succeeded  at  last.)  The  book  has 
since  had  some  eight  hitches  or  stages  of  growth,  with  one  annex, 
(and  another  to  come  out  in  1891,  which  will  complete  it.) 

1862.  — In  December  of  this  year  went  down  to  the  field  of  war 
in  Virginia.  My  brother  George  reported  badly  wounded  in  the 
Fredericksburg  fight.  (For  1863  and  '64,  see  "Specimen  Days.") 
1865  to  '71  — Had  a  place  as  clerk  (till  well  on  in  '73)  in  the  At 
torney  General's  Office,  Washington.  (New  York  and  Brooklyn  seem 
more  like  home,  as  I  was  born  near,  and  brought  up  in  them,  and  lived, 
man  and  boy,  for  30  years.  But  I  lived  some  years  in  Washington, 
and  have  visited,  and  partially  lived,  in  most  of  the  Western  and 
Eastern  cities.) 

1873. — This  year  lost,  by  death,  my  dear  dear  mother  —  and, 
just  before,  my  sister  Martha  —  the  two  best  and  sweetest  women  I 
have  ever  seen  or  known,  or  ever  expect  to  see.  Same  year,  Feb 
ruary,  a  sudden  climax  and  prostration  from  paralysis.  Had  been 
simmering  inside  for  several  years  ;  broke  out  during  those  times  tem 
porarily,  and  then  went  over.  But  now  a  serious  attack,  beyond 
cure.  Dr.  Drinkard,  my  Washington  physician,  (and  a  first-rate 
one, )  said  it  was  the  result  of  too  extreme  bodily  and  emotional  strain 
continued  at  Washington  and  "down  in  front,"  in  1863,  *4  an(^  '5' 
I  doubt  if  a  heartier,  stronger,  healthier  physique,  more  balanced  upon 
itself,  or  more  unconscious,  more  sound,  ever  lived,  from  1835  10*72. 
My  greatest  call  (Quaker)  to  go  around  and  do  what  I  could  there  in 
those  war-scenes  where  I  had  fallen,  among  the  sick  and  wounded, 
was,  that  I  seem'd  to  be  so  strong  and  well.  (I  consider' d  myself 
invulnerable.)  But  this  last  attack  shatter' d  me  completely,  Quit 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  523 

work  at  Washington,  and  moved  to  Camden,  New  Jersey  —  where  I 
have  lived  since,  receiving  many  buffets  and  some  precious  caresses  — 
and  now  write  these  lines.  Since  then,  ( 1 874-'$)  i )  a  long  stretch  of 
illness  or  half-illness,  with  occasional  lulls.  During  these  latter,  have 
revised  and  printed  over  all  my  books  —  bro't  out  "November 
Boughs*'  — and  at  intervals  leisurely  and  explormgly  travel  d  to  the 
Prairie  States,  the  Rocky  Mountains,  Canada,  to  New  York,  to  my 
birthplace  in  Long  Island,  and  to  Boston.  But  physical  disability  and 
the  war-paralysis  above  alluded  to  have  settled  upon  me  more  and 
more,  the  last  year  or  so.  Am  now  ( 1 89 1 )  domicil'd,  and  have  been 
for  some  years,  in  this  little  old  cottage  and  lot  in  Mickle  street, 
Camden,  with  a  house-keeper  and  man  nurse.  Bodily  I  am  completely 
disabled,  but  still  write  for  publication.  I  keep  generally  buoyant 
spirits,  write  often  as  there  comes  any  lull  in  physical  sufferings,  get  in 
the  sun  and  down  to  the  river  whenever  I  can,  retain  fair  appetite, 
assimilation  and  digestion,  sensibilities  acute  as  ever,  the  strength  and 
volition  of  my  right  arm  good,  eyesight  dimming,  but  brain  normal, 
i.nd  retain  my  heart's  and  soul's  unmitigated  faith  not  only  in  their 
own  original  literary  plans,  but  in  the  essential  bulk  of  American 
humanity  east  and  west,  north  and  south,  city  and  country,  through 
thick  and  thin,  to  the  last.  Nor  must  I  forget,  in  conclusion,  a  special, 
prayerful,  thankful  God's  blessing  to  my  dear  firm  friends  and  personal 
helpers,  men  and  women,  home  and  foreign,  old  and  young. 

OUT  IN  THE  Walt  Whitman  got  out  in  the  mid-April 

OPEN  AGAIN  sun  and  warmth  of  yesterday,   propelled 

From  the  Camdtn  Post,  April  in  his  wheel  chair,  the  first  ^time  after 
/6,  '9/  four  months  of  imprisonment  in  his  sick 

room.     He  has  had  the  worst  winter  yet, 

mainly  from  grippe  and  gastric  troubles,  and  threaten' d  blindness;  but 
keeps  good  spirits,  and  has  a  new  little  forthcoming  book  in  the 
printer's  hands. 

AMERICA'S  BULK  If  I  were  ask'd  persona  to  specify  the  one 
AVERAGE  point  of  America's  people  on  which  I 

mainly  rely,  I  should  say  the  final  average 
or  bulk  quality  of  the  whole. 

Happy  indeed  w'd  I  consider  myself  to  give  a  fair  reflection  and 
representation  of  even  a  portion  of  shows,  questions,  humanity,  events, 
unfoldings,  thoughts,  &c.  &c.,  my  age  in  these  States.^ 

The  great  social,  political,  historic  function  of  my  time  h»s  been  of 
course  the  attempted  secession  war. 

And  was  there  not  something  grand,  and  an  inside  proof  of  peren 
nial  grandeur,  in  that  war  !  We  talk  of  our  age's  and  the  States' 


524  COMPLETE  PROSE  WORKS 

materialism  —  and  it  is  too  true.     But  how  amid  the  whole  sordidness 

—  the  entire  devotion  of  America,  at  any  price,  to  pecuniary  success, 
merchandise  —  disregarding  all  but  business  and  profit  —  this  war  for 
a  bare  idea  and  abstraction  —  a  mere,  at  bottom,  heroic  dream  and 
reminiscence  —  burst  forth  in  its  great  devouring  flame  and  conflagra 
tion  quickly  and  fiercely  spreading  and  raging,   and  enveloping  all, 
defining  in  two  conflicting  ideas  —  first  the  Union  cause  —  second  the 
other,  a  strange  deadly  interrogation  point,  hard  to  define  —  Can  we 
not  now  safely  confess  it  ?  —  with  magnificent  rays,  streaks  of  noblest 
heroism,  fortitude,  perseverance,  and  even  conscientiousness,  through 
its  pervadingly  malignant  darkness. 

What  an  area  and  rounded  field,  upon  the  whole  —  the  spirit,  arro 
gance,  grim  tenacity  of  the  South  —  the  long  stretches  of  murky  gloom 
—  the  general  National  Will  below  and  behind  and  comprehending  all 

—  not  once  really  wavering,  not  a  day,  not  an  hour  —  What  could  be, 
or  even  can  be,  grander  ? 

As  in  that  war,  its  four  years  —  as  through  the  whole  history  and 
development  of  the  New  World  —  these  States  through  all  trials, 
processes,  eruptions,  deepest  dilemmas,  (often  straining,  tugging  at 
society's  heart-strings,  as  if  some  divine  curiosity  would  find  out  how 
much  this  democracy  could  stand,)  have  so  far  finally  and  for  more 
than  a  century  best  justified  themselves  by  the  average  impalpable  quality 
and  personality  of  the  bulk,  the  People  en  masse.  ...  I  am  not  sure 
but  my  main  and  chief  however  indefinite  claim  for  any  page  of  mine 
w'd  be  its  derivation,  or  seeking  to  derive  itself,  f'm  that  average 
quality  of  the  American  bulk,  the  people,  and  getting  back  to  it  again. 

LAST  SAVED  ITEMS  In  its  highest  aspect,  and  striking  its  grand- 
fm  a  vast  batch  left  to  oblivion  est  average,  essential  Poetry  expresses  and 

goes  along  with  essential  Religion  —  has 

been  and  is  more  the  adjunct,  and  more  serviceable  to  that  true  religion 
(for  of  course  there  is  a  false  one  and  plenty  of  it)  than  all  the  priests 
and  creeds  and  churches  that  now  exist  or  have  ever  existed  —  even 
while  the  temporary  prevalent  theory  and  practice  of  poetry  is  merely 
one-side  and  ornamental  and  dainty  —  a  love-sigh,  a  bit  of  jewelry,  a 
feudal  conceit,  an  ingenious  tale  or  intellectual  fnesse,  adjusted  to  the 
low  taste  and  calibre  that  will  always  sufficiently  generally  prevail  — 
(ranges  of  stairs  necessary  to  ascend  the  higher.) 

The  sectarian,  church  and  doctrinal,  follies,  crimes,  fanaticisms, 
aggregate  and  individual,  so  rife  all  thro*  history,  are  proofs  of  the 
radicalness  and  universality  of  the  indestructible  element  of  humanity's 
Religion,  just  as  much  as  any,  and  are  the  other  side  of  it.  Just  as 
disease  proves  health,  and  is  the  other  side  of  it.  .  .  .  The  philosophy 
of  Greece  taught  normality  and  the  beauty  of  life.  Christianity  teaches 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  525 

how  to  endure  illness  and  death.  I  have  wonder' d  whether  a  third 
philosophy  fusing  both,  and  doing  full  justice  to  both,  might  not  be 
outlined. 

It  will  not  be  enough  to  say  that  no  Nation  ever  achieved  material 
istic,  political  and  money-making  successes,  with  general  physical 
comfort,  as  fully  as  the  United  States  of  America  are  to-day  achieving 
them.  I  know  very  well  that  those  are  the  indispensable  foundations 
—  the  sine  qua  non  of  moral  and  heroic  (poetic)  fruitions  to  come.  For 
if  those  pre-successes  were  all  —  if  they  ended  at  that  —  if  nothing 
more  were  yielded  than  so  far  appears  —  a  gross  materialistic  prosperity 
only  —  America,  tried  by  subtlest  tests,  were  a  failure  —  has  not 
advanced  the  standard  of  humanity  a  bit  further  than  other  nations. 
Or,  in  plain  terms,  has  but  inherited  and  enjoy*  d  the  results  of  ordinary 
claims  and  preceding  ages. 

Nature  seem'd  to  use  me  a  long  while  —  myself  all  well,  able,  strong 
and  happy  —  to  portray  power,  freedom,  health.  But  after  a  while 
she  seems  to  fancy,  may-be  I  can  see  and  understand  it  all  better  by 
being  deprived  of  most  of  those. 

How  difficult  it  is  to  add  anything  more  to  literature  —  and  how 
unsatisfactory  for  any  earnest  spirit  to  serve  merely  the  amusement  of 
the  multitude!  (It  even  seems  to  me,  said  H.  Heine,  more  invigorat 
ing  to  accomplish  something  bad  than  something  empty.) 

The  Highest  said:  Don't  let  us  begin  so  low  —  isn't  our  range 
too  coarse  —  too  gross?  .  .  .  The  Soul  answer' d:  No,  not  when  we 
consider  what  it  is  all  for  —  the  end  involved  in  Time  and  Space. 

Essentially  my  own  printed  records,  all  my  volumes,  are  doubtless 
but  off-hand  utterances  f'm  Personality  spontaneous,  following  implic 
itly  the  inscrutable  command,  dominated  by  that  Personality,  vaguely 
even  if  decidedly,  and  with  little  or  nothing  of  plan,  art,  erudition,  &c. 
If  I  have  chosen  to  hold  the  reins,  the  mastery,  it  has  mainly  been  to 
give  the  way,  the  power,  the  road,  to  the  invisible  steeds.  (I  wanted 
to  see  how  a  Person  of  America,  the  last  half  of  the  i9th  century,  w'd 
appear,  but  quite  freely  and  fairly  in  honest  type.) 

Haven't  I  given  specimen  clues,  if  no  more?  At  any  rate  I  have 
written  enough  to  weary  myself —  and  I  will  dispatch  it  to  the  printers, 
and  cease.  But  how  much  —  how  many  topics,  of  the  greatest  point 
and  cogency,  I  am  leaving  untouch'd! 


WALT  WHITMAN'S  LAST 


Good- Bye  my  Fancy  —  concluding  Annex  to  Leaves  of  Grass. 

"The  Highest  said  :  Don't  let  us  begin  so  low — isn't  our  range  too 
coarse  —  too  gross?  .  .  .  The  Soul  answer' d  :  No,  not  when  we  consider 
what  it  is  all  for — the  end  involved  in  Time  and  Space." — An  item 
from  last  page  of  *  *  Good-Bye, '  * 

H.  Heine's  first  principle  of  criticising  a  book  was,  What  motive  is 
the  author  trying  to  carry  out,  or  express  or  accomplish  ?  and  the  second, 
Has  he  achieved  it? 

The  theory  of  my  Leaves  of  Grass  as  a  composition  of  verses 
has  been  from  first  to  last,  (if  I  am  to  give  impromptu  a  hint  of  the 
spinal  marrow  of  the  business,  and  sign  it  with  my  name, )  to  thoroughly 
possess  the  mind,  memory,  cognizance  of  the  author  himself,  with  every 
thing  beforehand — a  full  armory  of  concrete  actualities,  observations, 
humanity,  past  poems,  ballads,  facts,  technique,  war  and  peace,  politics, 
North  and  South,  East  and  West,  nothing  too  large  or  too  small,  the 
science*  as  far  as  possible — and  above  all  America  and  the  present — 
after  and  out  of  which  the  subject  of  the  poem,  long  or  short,  has 
been  invariably  turned  over  to  his  Emotionality,  even  Personality,  to 
be  shaped  thence ;  and  emerges  strictly  therefrom,  with  all  its  merits 

*  Published  in  Lippincoti* s  Magazine,  August,  1891,  with  the  following 
note  added  by  the  editor  of  the  magazine:  "With  Good-Eye  my  Fancy, 
Walt  Whitman  has  rounded  out  his  life-work.  This  book  is  his  last 
message,  and  of  course  a  great  deal  will  be  said  about  it  by  critics  all  over 
the  world,  both  in  praise  and  dispraise  j  but  probably  nothing  that  the  critics 
will  say  will  be  as  interesting  as  this  characteristic  utterance  upon  the  book 
by  the  poet  himself  It  is  the  subjective  view  as  opposed  to  the  objective 
views  of  the  critics.  Briefly,  Whitman  gives,  as  he  puts  it,  « a  hint  of  the 
spinal  marrow  of  the  business,'  not  only  of  Good-Bye  my  Fancy ,  but  also  of 
the  Leaves  of  Grass 

"It  was  only  after  considerable  persuasion  on  the  editor's  part  that  Mr. 
Whitman  consented  to  write  the  above.  As  a  concise  explanation  of  the 
poet' s  life-work  it  must  have  great  value  to  his  readers  and  admirers.  After 
the  critics  'have  ciphered  and  ciphered  out  long,'  they  will  probably 
have  nothing  better  to  say." 


WALT  WHITMAN'S  LAST  527 

and  demerits  on  its  head.  Every  page  of  my  poetic  or  attempt  at  poetic 
utterance  therefore  smacks  of  the  living  physical  identity,  date, 
environment,  individuality,  probably  beyond  anything  known,  and 
in  style  often  offensive  to  the  conventions. 

This  new  last  cluster,  Good-By  my  Fancy  follows  suit,  and  yet 
with  a  difference.  The  clef  is  here  changed  to  its  lowest,  and  the 
little  book  is  a  lot  of  tremolos  about  old  age,  death,  and  faith.  The 
physical  just  lingers,  but  almost  vanishes.  The  book  is  garrulous, 
irascible  (like  old  Lear)  and  has  various  breaks  and  even  tricks  to  avoid 
monotony.  It  will  have  to  be  ciphered  and  ciphered  out  long  —  and 
is  probably  in  some  respects  the  most  curious  part  of  its  author's 
baffling  works.  Walt  Whitman. 


(2) 


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